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The little shop had been slow and I noticed the tearful lady standing outside the display window for the tenth time in as many days.
Going quickly to the door I asked if I could help her.
As she turned away I gently asked, “Why do you keep coming back?”
Her lip trembled.
“That sign,” she said pointing. “It was my daughter’s favorite poem.”
“Was…” I said. “Was?
She turned away.
“Wait!” I shouted. I ran inside, grabbed it, and held it out. “Please take this…”
She hesitated and then she did.
‘Was’ can be a terribly powerful word.