Long ago
even before I was born,
the flowers withered and drifted away-
the petals of my grandfather.

I was two,
at such a naïve age, 
I walked into the cemetery
for the first time
my Dad bought a bouquet of sunflowers
as I grasped it in hand,
not knowing the difference between
life and death,
as he pushed the pram.

The sun, crawling through
the gaps of the sheltered trees
to kiss the tombstone
on its polished pebble grey surface.
simple, extravagant, slanted,
there were many of them.

“Hey Daddy…what are these?”
I ask through unfiltered innocence.
he looked at the grave stones 
then back at me.
With a bittersweet smile.
“They’re for when the petals dissolve”

Being a naïve kid,
I wasn’t the brightest.
I didn’t know what he meant 
but I went to put the sunflowers in the jar.
such simple mindedness.

Now, I no longer have to stand on my tippy toes 
to seem tall
and I now understand why the petals dissolve
but even over time, 
I still can’t however, obtain the real knowledge
of what my grandfather was like.

Was he funny?
Was he kind?
Of course, I can ask my dad what he was like 
but it’s not the same as interacting with him myself.
The bridge of life and death separates us.

The cemetery is a garden of the departed,
where the sunflowers stand as silent sentinels,
each petal that falls is a memory,
each sunflower, a testament to a life lived.
it is a library of souls,
where the sunflowers are the books,
and the petals are the pages,

The sunflowers still stand, silently speaking,
Though time has blurred
The petals may dissolve, yet memories stay,
In the sunflowers’ golden glow, my grandfather’s memories are here to stay.

Hey grandpa, the sunflowers are about to bloom again.

Image by Nikolett Emmert from Pexels