I always think of you like this.

Enjoying your sampige flowers.

Even when they’re dry, their fragrance lingers.

In your shelf, among your handkerchiefs and pillowcases.

Or I could be imagining it, because you always seemed to carry the jasmine and sampige with you.

The other day I came across a small cloth bag with sampige petals under the sheets, in the cupboard and felt unreasonably happy, as though you just popped up and said hello.

Memories are good.

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