This morning I stood and watched the bees busy in fragrant flowers and thought about the day to come.
The town gathered in a state of shock - the older to attend a familiar ritual with sad resignation, the young for an event not of of their time.
Your friends clung together to scatter petals as random as the emotions that flared in bursts of laughter, sobs and muted words of comfort. The silence between words thrummed with the feelings that brought us together in a tribute of flowers.
You were only nineteen, Grace Jasmine.
I will remember this day each time I smell that delicate scent of the white flowers with your name that grow on my fence.