Hungarian memories are bittersweet

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Cherry blossoms that covered the road I walked with my dear friend as she told me about her mothers illness and the problems in her marriage. I scooped them up and put them in a book because they were so glorious as they blew and frolicked in the wind, like a pink fall of snow brushing against the cobbled Hungarian street.
Her mother, an equally kind and generous woman, passed away and her marriage ended.

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