flowers in your hair now on our grave,

a little bit of pressure’s all it takes,

should’ve known we’d shatter that we’d break, break.

—

A couple of years ago, Eric hadn’t meant to walk into that old familiar flower shop again, nor had he meant to actually leave that very same shop again with a small bouquet of what he thought was perhaps the one thing that would reminded him of her the most: maybe it was the radiant shade of yellow of each petal that reminded him so much of the way her eyes would sparkled when she was delighted, or maybe the bright shade of these very same petals that reminded him all too well of the familiar vibrant sound of her laughter that he had always loved to hear.

Now all he had was memories that had once been painful to even reminisced about, but time could indeed heal, and the memories that had once sent him spiralling to his breaking points had now remained safely scribbled down into the piles of lyrics that remained an unknown story to the world. 

Still, he hadn’t tried to stop himself whenever this day would come close. He hadn’t tried hard enough to stop the nostalgia from hitting him and breaking him from his own manmade shift of solace, and even for just one day, Eric would find himself on that same street again, this time without the excuse of Brian’s preference in that one café by that same street. He would stand across from that familiar building, the same shade of grey was welcoming and depressing at the same time, but he still found a sense of comfort in being back even for just a few minutes. 

He remembered seeing a couple being led by a real estate to the unit that had once been theirs, and now that he was here again, swarmed by an unnecessary amount of nostalgia, Eric briefly wondered if they ever took the unit. He had never been able to come across that couple again ever since then. 

He knew they would have loved it though. Just as both himself and her had, and if they ever did took it, he hoped they would get all the times in the world to make beautiful memories together. He had walked away then, leaving the same exact stem of flower he was holding onto the bench at where he stood; at first for what reasons exactly, he didn’t know. He had no one he wished to give it to, nor did he had a reason to even get it in the first place. But it reminded him way too much of her that it was impossible for him to not to.

But now that he had grabbed the same stem of flower again years after years, he had finally felt the needs to find out about its meaning. He remembered picking the best few stems from amongst the displays they had available in the store, and finally brought himself to ask the florist about it. 

“What flower is this?”

“It’s Marigold,” the florist had answered with a kind smile on her face. She was an older woman, seemingly around his mum’s age. “They’re only available around this season, but even so, we rarely bring a lot of them in for sale.”

“Why is that?” Eric asked, slightly intrigued. He couldn’t understand why the florist didn’t want to sell something so beautiful as this flower he was holding.

“For something so unadorned and simple as marigold, its meaning proves to be otherwise: a sad goodbye, or a happiness coming one day. Nobody really wanted to buy them, or even get them as a gift because of its vague meaning, in fear of causing misunderstanding.”

But Eric had been mesmerised by it since the first time he had seen it. How was it that a flower could be so pretty, and could perfectly summed up the exact point of his life?

Ever since then, he had found himself visiting the flower shop regularly, watching as the florist lady aged years by years until recently when she was starting to show white streaks in her hairs; but her smile had been welcoming as ever as she carefully wrapped all the stems of marigold he had chosen into one beautiful bouquet for him.

Surely he would never dared to hope, but he figured out it wouldn’t hurt to wait and see one day which meaning would defined these marigolds for him exactly. 

But for now, he was contented with just watching the once familiar street, taking in the surrounding that had once been his happiest place, and reliving the little time they’d had together. For now, he was contented to walk away again with that same bouquet of marigold in his hand, and one perfect stem from among that same bouquet left behind on the bench across from their once happy place. 

He didn’t think she’d find it, nor had he even expected her to come here at all. The flower he left was merely a reminiscent of his once happy memories; a painful alternative to what many would do when visiting the graves of their loved ones. 

In his case, he was merely visiting the grave of their memories.