Every day he gave me a flower.
Sometimes it was a bought arrangement.
Sometimes it was a wild flower.
Sometimes it was a picked flower.
Sometimes he gave me a dried poppy .
Neatly tukked into the pages of his favourite book.
Sometimes it was free.
Sometimes it was store-bought.
At times it was cheekishly taken from a public garden.
Or from behind the vile neighbours fence.
Sometimes it was drawn on paper.
Sometimes they were bound into a crown. .
Everyday he gave me a flower.
He gave them with love.
He gave them with passion.
Sometimes it was a dandilion.
Sometimes it was origami.
Sometimes it was a poem,
Or a book about a flower.
He gave me flower earrings.
A flower neclace.
He served me flowers floating in my tea.
He gave me flowers in the form of a bread.
Sometimes he cooked with edible flowers.
He gave me flowers every day.
He spread out flowers on our bed.
And now, it is I who is bringing him flowers.
I come to his grave
And bring a flower, or two .
And one day soon, I will be here too.
His last flowers grow here now.
If you were still here, then today we’d spend some time together to celebrate your 56th Birthday. You’d be so happy to now have two healthy grandchildren. We’d go for a walk in the park. Maybe we would be making plans for the weekend. Would you like to go searching for mushrooms, just the kids, you and I? Continue reading “What if?”