From seed to seed, the green new growth, the swelling bud, the floral bloom and the dead flower and all part the story.
I take the dead flowers as an invitation to bring fresh ones upon my next visit. She loves them. She loves their fragrance and the petal colours. They are happy memories to her, that's clear. It is as if the flowers are another kind of photograph she looks upon with fond reminiscence.
Dead flowers are the potpourri of this room, or at least once the windows are opened and a new wind enters, they will be.
The sunflowers in the vase aren't simply dead, they're dried like the ornamental blooms my nan once suspended in her kitchen. Somehow the petals remain stuck fast, radiating around the brown centre, its pure chocolate hues so bold in the pale room.
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