A walk through the park revealed a european garden that reminded me of the most beautiful place I've ever been (madrid, spain), but that I was there with him and there was sadness between us; another memory spoiled and tainted.
in the peach colored gravel lay a broken bud, a beautiful magenta flower made up of hundreds of small petals that converged on its center. it looked like the flowers that happen when chives are left unharvested, but this was smaller, more tight, petals so severe that they resisted opening from my fingernail. It was there waiting to be discovered, longing to communicate something, wanting to live on past its stalk and roots and I reached down and plucked it from the ground and held it in my fingers while we tried to make sense of us.
in the lagoon, I tossed that tiny bud, and it created a ripple so large that it seemed impossible. I threw it out of frustration, thinking to myself that I wanted nothing to remember that walk or today. it stayed beautiful despite me.
too bad there is no gardener for my memories.
small gestures keep us together while we pretend not to notice everything else...
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