b i t t e r s w e e t
Claes leaves Garden Angelica herbs on your grave. She says she chooses them because they have your name, and also, that you once helped her plant some in her garden so that they could be here today to decorate your tombstone, Angelica.
Henrietta leaves pictures of you and her, of old times before I was even here. She says she chooses them because there's a myth that a camera steals part of your soul, and she likes to watch them scatter into the wind, thinking that maybe you're somewhere out there, too, Angelica.
Rico leaves whatever she can find in her dormitory. She'll draw a picture, no matter how bad it looks, because she wants your grave to look beautiful, Angelica.
Triela leaves nothing but tears. For you, Angelica.
I leave a bouquet of primula flowers. They come in so many colors, Ange — Claes identified each species when I showed them to her last Sunday. The purple are Primula farinosa, the orange are Primula hortensis, the small bright yellow are Primula prolifera, the white are Primula alpicola... Claes knows so much about everything. It makes me wonder, sometimes, if she ever taught you what she knows.
But my favorite are the Primula vulgaris. They could've been almost white to me. Tinted yellow, and so delicate-looking. I don't know what flower you liked, or what your favorite color was when you were still alive, but that's why I choose all these flowers for you, Angelica. All the time. Mr. Sandro even helps now. Isn't that wonderful?
And still I think, that even though they die so quickly, maybe they lived long, full, though bittersweet lives as flowers. But maybe that's enough.