My pruning shears were still near Edward\u2019s headstone when I saw a stranger holding the sunflower I\u2019d brought for his birthday. Her shopping bag overflowed with flowers gathered from other graves. I demanded she return mine. Instead of explaining, she invited me across the street, where a locked room held something marked with my dead son\u2019s name.<\/p>\n
Yesterday should have been Edward\u2019s thirty-fifth birthday. I bought sunflowers rather than a birthday cake, remembering how he used to arrive at my house with a bunch of them. He never bothered with a vase or fancy wrapping. They came in supermarket plastic, wedged beneath his arm beside his toolbox.<\/p>\n
\u201cFor the prettiest girl on the block,\u201d he\u2019d say.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re only saying that because you want lunch.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCan both things be true?\u201d<\/p>\n
I\u2019d generally make him a sandwich.<\/p>\n
Seven months earlier, Edward had been killed in a traffic accident while driving home from work. Even now, whenever something stopped working, I sometimes instinctively reached for my phone to call him.<\/p>\n
On his birthday, I arranged the sunflowers in a small vase beside his grave.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe kitchen faucet\u2019s leaking again, Eddie,\u201d I told him.<\/p>\n
His familiar response seemed almost audible.<\/p>\n
\u201cMom, why didn\u2019t you just call me?\u201d<\/p>\n
I remained there until the wind turned chilly, then returned home. Only that evening did I realize my pruning shears were still beside his headstone.<\/p>\n
The following morning, I went back to retrieve them. Halfway along the cemetery\u2019s gravel walkway, I spotted a woman wearing a shabby gray coat and carrying an oversized shopping bag. Roses, carnations, and unopened lily buds protruded from it.<\/p>\n
I saw her lean over a grave and pull a pink carnation from a newly placed arrangement. She dropped it into her bag, then proceeded to another grave, selecting a white rose and some greenery. These weren\u2019t wilted flowers abandoned for disposal. She was deliberately taking fresh ones. Water seeped from the bag onto her footwear.<\/p>\n
The sight left me standing motionless in the middle of the walkway. I could think of no innocent reason for choosing the newest blossoms from several memorials. I assumed she intended to sell them. Then she headed straight toward Edward\u2019s resting place, bent over, and removed a sunflower from yesterday\u2019s bouquet.<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t touch that.\u201d<\/p>\n
She startled and turned, the flower still in her grasp. I approached immediately.
\n\u201cGive it back.\u201d<\/p>\n
She surrendered it without arguing. From nearby, she appeared roughly my age, possibly younger. Her coat cuffs were worn and her fingers wet.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow many graves have you taken those from?\u201d<\/p>\n
Her gaze dropped.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI brought these for my son yesterday.\u201d<\/p>\n
I moved closer.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt was his birthday.\u201d<\/p>\n
She glanced at the inscription.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m very sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you?\u201d<\/p>\n
When she remained silent, I tightened my hold on the stem.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is all I can do for him now.\u201d My fingers closed around the sunflower stem. \u201cAnd you\u2019re taking them to sell?\u201d<\/p>\n
She looked up sharply.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m not selling them.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen what are you doing?\u201d<\/p>\n
Her eyes settled on the flower I\u2019d recovered.<\/p>\n
\u201cPlease follow me. You need to see something.\u201d<\/p>\n
The request seemed absurd.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou expect me to go somewhere with you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI live across the street.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat doesn\u2019t explain why you\u2019re stealing flowers.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know.\u201d She tightened her grip on the bag. \u201cI can show you.\u201d<\/p>\n
I examined the crowded stems.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re putting every one of those back.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI will.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNow.\u201d<\/p>\n
She paused.<\/p>\n
\u201cPlease. Ten minutes. Then I\u2019ll bring them back, and you can come with me.\u201d<\/p>\n
I disliked her proposal, yet leaving without understanding her behavior felt worse. Across the road were houses, with occasional vehicles passing. At least we wouldn\u2019t be completely isolated.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s your name?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cMonica.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m Sansa.\u201d<\/p>\n
She acknowledged that with a nod. Clutching the sunflower against my coat, I agreed.<\/p>\n
\u201cAll right, Monica. Show me.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her modest home had weathered blue shutters and a slim porch. She guided me past a neat sitting room to a locked door at the hallway\u2019s end, then produced a key.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s in there?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
She met my eyes.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe reason I took the flowers.\u201d<\/p>\n
She turned the lock and switched on the light. I stopped at the entrance.<\/p>\n
One wall was lined with shelves displaying small objects inside wooden presentation boxes, covered in white fabric. Handwritten tags beneath them listed dates or names. Under the window stood a workbench scattered with dried petals, molds, gloves, and bottles of transparent casting resin.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat is all this?\u201d<\/p>\n
Monica hesitated. Before she replied, I noticed one label on the second shelf: Edward. His full name appeared carefully handwritten beneath it.<\/p>\n
I faced her.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis isn\u2019t the first time you\u2019ve taken his flowers.\u201d<\/p>\n
She shook her head.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
I folded my arms close to my chest.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow long have you been doing this?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSince a few weeks after his funeral.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n
She gestured toward the white covering.<\/p>\n
\u201cMay I show you?\u201d<\/p>\n
After I nodded, she lifted the fabric, revealing a small rectangular resin block. Layers of dried yellow, white, and pale-blue petals were sealed inside, threaded by a thin blue ribbon.<\/p>\n
I recognized it before I had even taken in the rest of the arrangement. The color and narrow width were unmistakable. I\u2019d fastened that ribbon around the very first flowers I\u2019d taken to Edward\u2019s grave after the funeral. It came from an aging spool in my sewing drawer. My hands shook so badly that I\u2019d tied two knots. A week later, the ribbon disappeared. I\u2019d searched near the headstone, certain the wind had blown it into the grass.<\/p>\n
Now it was preserved behind clear resin, its edges a little faded. I reached toward it, hesitated, and leaned closer through gathering tears.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere did you get that?\u201d I whispered.<\/p>\n
Monica ran a thumb along the workbench.<\/p>\n
\u201cFrom his grave.\u201d<\/p>\n
For months, I\u2019d imagined the ribbon caught among weeds beyond the cemetery fence. Instead, it had been stored here.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy would you take that?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cI wanted to preserve it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFor whom?\u201d<\/p>\n
She lowered her gaze.<\/p>\n
\u201cFor you, eventually.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t know me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou didn\u2019t know Edward.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen why would you think you had the right?\u201d
\nShe offered no response. I turned back toward the keepsake and spotted a tiny dark blemish near the ribbon\u2019s end. I\u2019d accidentally made that ink mark while writing a grocery list. That familiar, accidental stain settled any uncertainty. There was absolutely no doubt it belonged to us.<\/p>\n
My fingertips brushed the wooden box. Beneath the block lay a folded sheet, yellowing around the edges. I recognized my own handwriting before unfolding it.<\/p>\n
During my second visit after the funeral, I\u2019d tucked a message among Edward\u2019s flowers because I couldn\u2019t bear saying it aloud. On a scrap from my kitchen table, I\u2019d written:<\/p>\n
The kitchen is too quiet without your radio on, Eddie.<\/p>\n
That single sentence brought back the little portable radio he played whenever he repaired anything at my house. He favored old rock music and sang terribly. I\u2019d sometimes complained about the racket. Now I would have given anything to hear it again.<\/p>\n
Holding the note to my coat, I began sobbing. Monica stood silently beside the table. Eventually, I folded the paper and confronted her.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid you read this?\u201d<\/p>\n
After a pause, she admitted it.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou shouldn\u2019t have.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThose words weren\u2019t for you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m sorry, Sansa.\u201d<\/p>\n
I pushed the note into my coat pocket. Leaving it in that room was unthinkable.<\/p>\n
Monica drew out a chair.<\/p>\n
\u201cWould you like to sit?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
She accepted my refusal. Surveying the numerous boxes, I asked another question.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow many families have you done this to?\u201d<\/p>\n
She visibly recoiled.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know the exact number.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019ve been taking flowers from strangers\u2019 graves without asking them?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n
At the far end of her workbench, Monica opened a drawer and retrieved an imperfect resin piece about the size of a matchbox. A single pink petal was embedded inside.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis was the first one I made,\u201d she said. \u201cIt was from flowers left for my daughter.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYour daughter?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe died nine years ago.\u201d<\/p>\n
Monica rotated the small block between her fingers.<\/p>\n
\u201cAfter the funeral, I kept going back to her grave. I\u2019d bring flowers, and a week later they\u2019d be gone. The cemetery had to clear them away. I understood that. But I hated it.\u201d<\/p>\n
She placed it on the table.<\/p>\n
\u201cI started drying petals from the flowers I brought her. I watched videos, bought supplies, ruined more pieces than I finished.\u201d<\/p>\n
Handling the crooked keepsake again, she added:<\/p>\n
\u201cThat one took me three tries.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd then?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen I started noticing other graves. Fresh bouquets left in the rain. Cards tucked among the stems. I kept thinking someone would want to save a little of them.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSo you took them.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cJust a few stems from each.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWithout asking.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked toward Edward\u2019s label.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat were you planning to do with these?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cReturn them.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIn small wooden boxes. I wrote down the names and dates from the headstones so I could keep each person\u2019s flowers separate. I thought I\u2019d leave the boxes near their graves before the death anniversaries.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stared at her, struggling to understand her reasoning.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou thought families would know who left them?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI planned to include a note.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd if the cemetery staff removed the boxes?\u201d<\/p>\n
She fell quiet.<\/p>\n
\u201cHave you already left any?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cA few.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDid anyone get them?\u201d<\/p>\n
Looking toward the window, she answered:<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n
I shook my head, then regarded the shopping bag bulging with freshly cut stems.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou have to stop. Not just taking flowers from Edward. From everyone.\u201d<\/p>\n
She nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd those flowers in your bag need to go back today.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course.\u201d<\/p>\n
I examined Edward\u2019s resin keepsake once more. Part of me longed to bring it home. Another part remained furious that she\u2019d created it without permission.<\/p>\n
\u201cMay I keep my note?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s yours.\u201d<\/p>\n
I secured the paper farther down my pocket and studied the blue ribbon.<\/p>\n
\u201cI need time to think about that.\u201d<\/p>\n
Monica agreed.<\/p>\n
\u201cTake as much as you need.\u201d
\nTogether, we carried her bag across the road. I pointed out graves where I\u2019d witnessed her picking flowers, and she replaced every stem she could identify. Some had become mixed up, so we brought those to the cemetery office.<\/p>\n
There, Monica confessed what she\u2019d done. A weary-looking employee firmly explained that taking flowers without the families\u2019 consent was prohibited. She also warned that boxes deposited at graves without approval might simply be removed.<\/p>\n
Outside, I paused at Edward\u2019s headstone. His birthday bouquet remained beside it, and I returned the sunflower I\u2019d been carrying. My pruning shears were exactly where I\u2019d forgotten them, partially concealed near the vase. I picked them up while Monica waited several steps away.<\/p>\n
\u201cMay I finish the presentation box for Edward\u2019s flowers?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n
Looking at the yellow blooms, I answered:<\/p>\n
\u201cNot yet.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAll right.\u201d<\/p>\n
Back home, I laid my recovered note on the kitchen counter. The faucet kept dripping. Beneath the sink sat Edward\u2019s old toolbox, containing replacement washers, a wrench, and a screwdriver with a battered yellow handle.<\/p>\n
I lifted the wrench, then returned it. Edward had always made repairs seem effortless. Instead, I located a plumber\u2019s number and scheduled an appointment.<\/p>\n
Afterward, I lingered alone in the kitchen, rereading my note. I opened the sewing drawer and found the original spool of blue ribbon. Holding it, I pictured the preserved strip in Monica\u2019s locked room. The piece was beautiful, and the way it had come into existence still troubled me. I still hadn\u2019t decided whether to accept her creation, but I knew the image would stay with me.<\/p>\n
By midafternoon, I telephoned her.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ve been thinking about Edward\u2019s flowers.\u201d<\/p>\n
She waited quietly.<\/p>\n
\u201cWould you like the piece?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes. But don\u2019t add anything else to it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd Monica?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cPlease ask people before touching their flowers again.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI will, Sansa.\u201d<\/p>\n
I drove over before sunset. Monica had placed the finished resin block in a small wooden presentation box. The original blue ribbon rested between the dried petals, unchanged.<\/p>\n
\u201cThank you,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
Clasping her hands, she explained:<\/p>\n
\u201cI asked the cemetery office whether I could offer preservation privately, if families contact me themselves. I won\u2019t touch another flower unless someone asks me to.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat sounds better.\u201d<\/p>\n
She nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cI should\u2019ve done that from the beginning.\u201d<\/p>\n
I lifted the box.<\/p>\n
\u201cI think Edward would\u2019ve liked the ribbon.\u201d<\/p>\n
A slight smile appeared on her face.<\/p>\n
\u201cTell me about him sometime?\u201d<\/p>\n
I thought about her request.
\n\u201cMaybe.\u201d<\/p>\n
The sun was sinking when I arrived home. I set Edward\u2019s memorial on the kitchen windowsill, beside a small jar holding a fresh sunflower I\u2019d purchased along the way. For a while, I stood looking at the simple arrangement on the sill. The ribbon glowed in the evening light.<\/p>\n
Behind me, the faucet continued dripping as I unlocked my phone. My thumb lingered above Edward\u2019s contact. For an instant, I wanted to call and tell him about the leak.<\/p>\n
Instead, I opened my photographs. There he stood in my kitchen, a toolbox tucked beneath one arm and sunflowers beneath the other. His shirt was stained, and he wore a broad grin. I enlarged the photograph.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou would\u2019ve fixed it before I finished complaining, Eddie.\u201d<\/p>\n
Then I laid the phone beside the flowers and put the kettle on.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
My pruning shears were still near Edward\u2019s headstone when I saw a stranger holding the sunflower I\u2019d brought for his birthday. Her shopping bag overflowed with flowers gathered from other … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":7175,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[11],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-7174","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-life-story"],"yoast_head":"\n