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Father told me that you want
to be buried, not burned, beside
the remains of Lolo and Lola. 
As you share the same soil,
the ground becomes 

you, fragments 
of the earth. Seeds of 
flesh and bones, welcoming 
water. Your veins take root, 
and with your flesh, the ground 
will no longer be barren. 
I comb the swards, as if 

they are your locks.
When spring comes you
will cover the ground
with flowers and more
leaves than usual. 
 
Then, I can say that
you were never gone. 
I’ll never run out of 
blossoms to pick.
 

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