The flowers were always there on his grave. Every year on Memorial Day, and on his birthday too. Tiger lilies, with great curling petals as ginger as his hair.
New graves are marked by holidays, bearing ribbons, frames, and wreaths. But as the years go by, the holidays go forgotten.
Each year, his grave saw fewer flowers, as those who remembered passed on, each to their own grave. Until the only flowers left were hers. And when she died, the last petal fell, to be caught by the wind. Ginger as the hair that no one remembered.
I may have watched Coco one too many times.
This has been an edition of Friday Fictioneers, hosted by the talented and generous Rochelle Wis0ff-Fields. This week’s photo courtesy Marie Gail Stratford. To read more stories inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click here.
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