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.
