They’re the last words you wrote. The very last time you put pen to paper, making all of the letters swirl in that carefully delicate way it took years for you to master, just happened to be about flowers.
That is marvellous.
Marvellous because you loved flowers more than anything, always finding a reason to smile in their presence. It’s the most fittingly poignant tribute that in your last hours, you were thinking about them.
Although it does make it harder to understand how you can suddenly not be in the world anymore. It’s too surreal for me to properly wrap my head around the idea that you can go from writing that note and wanting someone very special to have flowers, to not being there to see them anymore, all in the space of one day. A day that was supposed to be a celebration. A day that was actually starting to show signs of quiet loveliness.
It means from now on every December 11th will be tainted with an odd feeling that nobody can really understand – let alone articulate. I guess it would have been that way no matter what the date was though. It was never going to be easy. Loss isn’t supposed to be. No doubt we’ll all reflect, no doubt we’ll all cry, and no doubt we’ll all come to find solace in the fact that you looked peaceful; all the while filled with a deeply confused pain about how this happened so suddenly.
And in the meantime, while we try to understand what we’re supposed to do now, we’ll get some flowers. They’ll be just for you. And we’ll keep them until every last petal wilts, and the water turns grey. Their colours will fade but we’ll still smile at them. We’ll smile because of you. Because you loved them.
And when I tell your story that’s exactly what I’ll say. That she was a lady who loved flowers. She loved them right up until her very last day.