Growing up, I thought my mother was beautiful. Even though time has mercilessly dyed her hair white and drawn wrinkles.
My mother loved to grow flowers, so I plowed the land in the front yard again. Just to let her better plant the flowers and plants she likes.
One morning, the wind was warm and the sun was beautiful. My mother and I had a rare opportunity to sit in the front yard and enjoy the flowers together.
Mother suddenly spoke.
She said: "Each flower has its own unique meaning, which is why it is called the language of flowers. In fact, this is not necessarily the case. Each flower also has feelings and stories that cannot be expressed in the language of flowers..."