“You shouldn’t have.”
“I know.”
“Those words weren’t for you.”
“I’m sorry, Sansa.”
I pushed the note into my coat pocket. Leaving it in that room was unthinkable.
Monica drew out a chair.
“Would you like to sit?”
“No.”
She accepted my refusal. Surveying the numerous boxes, I asked another question.
“How many families have you done this to?”
She visibly recoiled.
“I don’t know the exact number.”
“You’ve been taking flowers from strangers’ graves without asking them?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
At the far end of her workbench, Monica opened a drawer and retrieved an imperfect resin piece about the size of a matchbox. A single pink petal was embedded inside.
“This was the first one I made,” she said. “It was from flowers left for my daughter.”
“Your daughter?”
“She died nine years ago.”
Monica rotated the small block between her fingers.
“After the funeral, I kept going back to her grave. I’d bring flowers, and a week later they’d be gone. The cemetery had to clear them away. I understood that. But I hated it.”
She placed it on the table.
“I started drying petals from the flowers I brought her. I watched videos, bought supplies, ruined more pieces than I finished.”
Handling the crooked keepsake again, she added:
“That one took me three tries.”
“And then?”
“Then I started noticing other graves. Fresh bouquets left in the rain. Cards tucked among the stems. I kept thinking someone would want to save a little of them.”
“So you took them.”
“Just a few stems from each.”
“Without asking.”
“Yes.”
I looked toward Edward’s label.
“What were you planning to do with these?”
“Return them.”
“How?”
“In small wooden boxes. I wrote down the names and dates from the headstones so I could keep each person’s flowers separate. I thought I’d leave the boxes near their graves before the death anniversaries.”
I stared at her, struggling to understand her reasoning.
“You thought families would know who left them?”
“I planned to include a note.”
“And if the cemetery staff removed the boxes?”
She fell quiet.
“Have you already left any?” I asked.
“A few.”
“Did anyone get them?”
Looking toward the window, she answered:
“I don’t know.”
I shook my head, then regarded the shopping bag bulging with freshly cut stems.
“You have to stop. Not just taking flowers from Edward. From everyone.”
She nodded.
“And those flowers in your bag need to go back today.”
“Of course.”
I examined Edward’s resin keepsake once more. Part of me longed to bring it home. Another part remained furious that she’d created it without permission.
“May I keep my note?” I asked.
“It’s yours.”
I secured the paper farther down my pocket and studied the blue ribbon.
“I need time to think about that.”
Monica agreed.
“Take as much as you need.”
Together, we carried her bag across the road. I pointed out graves where I’d witnessed her picking flowers, and she replaced every stem she could identify. Some had become mixed up, so we brought those to the cemetery
