Fresh from the Hen House
Sometime after my mom passed, someone gifted me this little crystal angel with purple wings. Unbeknownst to the sweet person who gave it to me, purple was my mom’s favorite color. I held on to this angel, trying to decide where she would go. I wanted a special, meaningful place. She hung out on my counter for a while, awaiting her spot. Then the first wheat harvest without my mom approached, and I quietly slipped into her role of grain cart driver.