Chrysanthemum

--

And I will always remember you for the beds of chrysanthemums you would plant each year.

You would work tirelessly summer after summer, work-torn hands delicately handling tiny balls of nothingness – balls of dirt, and of roots, and of nothing in particular. You would nurture then as if you were God himself, watching and waiting as weak leaves struggled to force their way to the surface. You would brush the compost from their path, gently urging them to grow, to bloom – just as you did your grandchildren. You would show us the first buds of new growth, and when they exploded in a technicolour blanket, you would lead us to the garden to pick our own flowers. When I would try and sneak one more brightly-coloured puff, you would laugh and call me your little vagabond. And when summer ended, you would pull them all out and start again, painting a canvas each year with flower-heads.

And one day, when my hands are work-torn and I have mastered the art, I will cover your grave with every colour of chrysanthemum under the sun.