The rickety front porch of the Smiths abandoned farmhouse haunts my feeble mind. April 1st rolls around too quickly each year. The springtime sickens me. Everything from the smell of it, to the sight of the beautiful blooming flowers. Spring marks the beginning of life. Rejuvenation. My mind remains focused, focused on the fact that she can't do that. She can't start life over. Her and photography are my life. Or at least were my life. Now that she's gone, I focus mainly on photography. If I let my mind wander it usually ends up on her, and that will do me no good. No good at all. She loved the springtime. It was her favorite season. We used to drive down Peterson Ave. on the first day of spring and just sit and watch the flowers on the dogwood trees bloom, exploding with life. Now, when I drive down this road, the trees become a blurred vision, a symbol of pain. My vision is entranced on that one wooden cross, the one with her name engraved on it. I didn't mean to lose control, it was never my intention. I should have slowed down. We were driving down Peterson, the road that we drove countless times, and knew by the back of our hands. We were going to take a peek inside the Smiths farmhouse. It had recently gone on the market and we had always adored that house. I sped up when we were almost there, 70 in a 45. I didn't see the tree fast enough. There was no time to stop. I smacked that beautiful dogwood tree, with the passengers side of my truck. The cops pronounced her dead at the scene. I was going to propose that night. I avoid that road as much as possible now. But, sometimes when I end up there, I feel her. She is waiting for me. My love for her will never die, in fact it keeps getting stronger each and every spring.