July 27th 2022
I have grown roses for the first time this year, which have given me huge amounts of joy. For the last few weeks, they’ve been in full flower, and every time I’ve dead-headed I’ve kept the blooms. I now have a basket full of dried rose petals, which I’m planning to scatter over Felix’s grave. I want to share my joy with him. I like to create and perform such little rituals; they are a way of keeping him in my life, keeping him close.
Dawn is at about twenty to six. When I arrive, the sun is not yet up, but there is a yellow tinge in the east, with pink wispy streaks across the sky to the west. Each grass seems to be illuminated in this shimmering morning, and an eerie mist wreathes the river. Then I notice a small area of the horizon starting to turn pink, and shortly after the sun – an orange molten ball – starts to rise. Within seconds, the burial ground is flooded with gentle orange light. Geese are honking in the distance.
I wander over to Felix’s grave, which is being overtaken by grass and plantain. I kneel down and trim the grass back but leave the plantain which I rather like. I wash the headstone and then lay down a bunch of roses. I think of my darling Felix, gone these five years.
I stand, and then ceremonially scatter the rose petals over his grave. They flutter down between the grasses and settle on the ground like drops of blood. Blood of my heart, of my flesh, of my soul.
The Green Hill 