image by the reclining gentleman
“Let’s go to the remembory garden, Daddy,” Vanessa said, plucking at my sleeve, “Visit the new ones.”
I asked once why a remembory garden. “The flowers remembory people who are gone. So, they don’t get forgotten again like when they were here.”
Her “garden” was next to paths leading to workers’ sheds and storage, half way across the park.
The main beds were bare, except for the feisty snow drops. Too early in a late spring.
I hoped she wouldn’t be disappointed. I was composing a platitude, when:
“See Daddy. The yellow one – someone new to remember.” (word count: 98)
Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers: February 10-12, 2016