He sat cross-legged in the garden and whispered to the flowers. On the days of gentle breezes, they whispered back. He found confidants in the snails and butterflies that carried the secrets of his crushes in their souls. They were the most trustworthy of creatures, he had decided. He was just a boy, some said, not understanding that boy was all he had to be. He never searched for four-leaf clovers when every three-leaved one he felt under his bare feet was lucky enough.

He grew, and the flowers bloomed because of him.

 

In autumn, I took my clothes off the line to avoid the evening rain. I traded a clothes peg with a magpie and she sang for me. Her tale of a moving home, and all the gardens that embraced her, welcomed the warm rain. With it, the grass dewed, my socks dampened, and the weeds stretched in thanks. As I hurried inside, I realised I had never paid them much mind before.

I began calling them wildflowers, and my lawnmower fell into disuse.

 

After too long living in a dark room, you start buying yourself flowers. Call it a declaration of self-love. You’re not good at keeping them watered but you’re trying. You keep the blinds open for them and realise you’ve missed watching the sunset. You didn’t love the darkness as much as you thought you did. You learn, slowly, that your love does not need to have a burial date.

You will keep buying yourself more flowers. You learn the names of your favourites.

 

We go to the cemetery and lay flowers for people we once knew. They were kind, we all agree, and we want them to know we remember. We miss them, and some of us wonder if they miss us too. Sometimes, we pull a gentle flower from our bundle and lay it on a lonely grave. We say the stranger’s name aloud and tell them they are loved, that we do not know them but we have not forgotten them.

We are all just ghosts in the making – growing, tending and giving love – and realising this is all we have to be.