I pass by a graveyard, riding public transportation to my destination at the present, whilst catching a glimpse of a man kneeling at a tombstone with two officials standing behind him… waiting. I wonder about the context of his visitation while he speaks thus to the rock engraved Liza Mari 1972-2012; her epitaph reads: Flower
There is always much to much to think about. One thought enters, fighting, while another flees from your remembrance, defeated. Down there, do you ever think about me? Poor flower, you’ve lost all of your luster. Now–now you’re not even desired by bees! I am left only with the residue of your pollen on my hands; not blood, as they believe. I’d shed a tear for you if it could be discerned from this autumnal rain. Or ease this guilt, doubling my pain. ‘Til next year — flower.
He rises with his hands clasped tightly around his hat. The two men start towards him as the bus reaches a point where the scene becomes just another memory.