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My mum loved flowers. Her ashes will be buried in a garden, which is poetic and wonderful. Every time I see a flower, I have to think of my mum. “She would like that one,” is what I say to myself. “She would’ve liked that one,” is what it will turn into, given some time.
I was with her when she took her last breath. “I love you,” is what I said. Last moment. Last movement. One last breath. She saw my daughter the day before, and she smiled. It was her last smile.
We live our lives as if they wouldn’t end; as if there was no last breath, no last smile, no last anything. But there is, and that’s what makes everything precious. Every interaction, every word, every breath, every goodbye, every smile.
There is a last everything. But for as long as we are, there will be flowers.
I saw a flower today. “She would’ve liked that one,” is what I thought. And after some time, it will transform again. “She is that one.”
She is that one. 
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