Every morning for the past two weeks they have been there. Waiting. Wondering if this day would be their last. Each new sunrise gives them hope. And so they stand, facing the inevitability of their death with courage and beauty.
And I, I have been chosen to be the instrument of their death. How can I describe the wringing of hands, the guilt, the sorrow, the procrastination...
The time we have both dreaded has come.
I solemnly raise the garage door, disconnect the charger, turn on the mower.
I will spare you the gory details. Let's instead think of happier times. Of the glory that was. . . the front lawn.
We will miss you. You will not be forgotten.