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.
Ding ding ding, the Sally jumped at the sound of her dessert spoon carefully tapping her wineglass. She felt a bit naked in her electric blue dress, but it wasn’t the cleavage that gave her that feeling, it was that about 150 pairs of eyes were suddenly staring at her.
Sally bit her lips. This was new for her, up to now she had avoided speaking at birthdays, weddings and funerals. Today, was a first. Her eyes scanned the room, everyone seemed to have been frozen, as if they were the cast of sleeping beauty, forks were in mid-air, mouths were filled with food, but had stopped to move. Even the young woman in the pink dress had not regained her position which was hinting at a laughing fit.
Under her breath, Sally muttered, “let’s do this”. She cleared her throat.
“Hello everyone, before I start, please feel free to continue eating! No need to turn into statues that could be unearthed in Pompei, we here to celebrate!” Continue reading “Josh and Aaron”