The wild flowers
We were children. Children of the city. With the flowers we had found on the path our games had lead us to in the country nearby, we had made a bouquet that we left on her grave and all our love with it. The graveyard was in the enclosure of the church that stood 100 metres from my grandfather’s house. My mother had a talk about it with me in the morning. She explained that though she had indeed understood our sincere intention the gesture had made our grandfather angry. The flowers we had left on the grave were wild flowers. My grandfather was a farmer and to him it was almost an insult to give his late wife flowers that had not been cultivated.