'Heathcliff’s Offer'

He came across the moor with what he had: spirea in its white spray, a hydrangea heart torn from the cluster, the single floret alongside it, white alyssum in its honey-scented modesty, a bluet bloom — that tiny four-petaled thing that survives everything — and one white violet. It is not a great quantity. He was not a man of great quantities in the soft things. But what he brought, he brought entirely, and the weight of that intention is not measured in volume.

The pendant holds all of it in a large oval sealed dark, the white of the flowers luminous against the ground. Light in quantity. Deep in heart. The moor is always there, underneath.

For the one who understands that the intensity of the feeling is not about the size of the gesture.