The Gift

I see now that the gardener has planted flowers around my burial mound. Last Spring there were yellow and white daffodils now in autumn those blooms have their own graves. The old man who looked after these green plots died. When he was elderly he could only recall his own yesterday's, but now he sees us all, knows our lives, even those irrelevant days that no one marked or recorded. He recalls us, all of us, for we remember ourselves not.