Filed under: death, flowers, friendship, hearts, life, love, misunderstanding, mourning, pink, serious, strangers, tribute
Sometimes they stop to read. The kinder ones retie fallen flowers. Sometimes they pause, but keep walking: drowsy, guilty steps for wandering on by. Maybe they think it’s not their place, or maybe they don’t even care. Perhaps they just can’t take it.
The mourners stand and stare. Shoulders tensed, arms defiantly crossed, they breathe in the ironic beauty of his flowers. The braver ones glance to the criminal road, trying to understand what happened. How it could happen. They hold one another, brushing away the tears. Eventually they leave; eventually they must leave.
But their steps are heavier, as are their hearts.
Dusk has fallen on the bunches. At present, I see fifty seven. The messages are beautiful: tributes to his sunny, triumphant life. To his rowing, his dancing, his ever cheery disposition. To a life lived so gloriously in just twenty two years.
Tsz, you will be missed.
