Memoirs

There was something, about lying on a bed made of flowers. They were delicate creatures, soft and yielding, and when Lily rubbed a petal against her thumb, nose tickled by grass and bright colours, she thought, gentle.

 

Maybe it was because she had been named after a flower, maybe it was because her mother had nurtured plants and flowers and cared for them the way she did for Lily and her brother, but Lily had grown up with a love for rubbing her fingers against them, eyes closed and enjoying the sweetness of the earth and outdoors.

 

There was peace.

 

Her brother had come with her once, to the field of low flowers she had found a year ago, bright reds and soft purples, prickly greens and velvety blues, and sat with her until the sky ran dim, and linked their palms together and breathed in quiet.

 

The flowers were beautiful, just like their mother, and the sight of it, the smell, the tranquility of their features and the way her brother would sit and never speak and neither would she; it would always become memories.

 

The flowers were memoirs of their late mother, and Lily closed her eyes, and breathed.