You are forever the same age. I’m catching up, and I hate it. You just stopped. Disappeared. That’s not entirely true; we gave you back to the earth. But it didn’t help you grow. I did, though. So much. Too much.
You loved flowers. They loved you back. Tiger lilies were your favourite, but I fear I’ve not blossomed into something you’d love. Sometimes I’m angry, tangled, gnarled vines threatening to strangle. Other times, I am belladonna. Deceptively inviting, but once you get to see the real me, my berries within—I am heinous. Pretty poison. Then I’m just a wilting weed, stomped on. A dying thing that no one cares about. You started my growth inside you. How, with your DNA, green fingers, and goodness, could I have bloomed so badly?
I’m now older than you ever got to be. That is cruel. You should be here now as the most immaculately pruned garden. Green and lush with health where it failed you in reality. Vibrant colours from flora I cannot name, all perfectly arranged. Alive.
I am looking at your photo as I write this, and I know the wrong flower was taken.