The little florist and her favorite companion.

When I was little, it was my dream to become a florist. I was incredibly lucky to grow up surrounded by nature. In the middle of flower fields, there were always enough beautiful blooms for my next bouquet. I never became a florist ;) but my love for flowers has stayed with me ever since.

Back then, my closest companion was my grandfather. I still remember his calm presence, always with his hands folded behind his back and a small smile on his lips. To me, he was peace in human form.

Whenever he went somewhere, picking mushrooms or visiting his sisters, he would ask if he could take me along. And so we wandered together, collecting elderflowers and simply spending time side by side.

When I was seven or eight, he became ill with lung cancer. Today, I understand that cancer is often connected to deep wounds, to grief or anger that quietly eats away at a person. Psychosomatically, the lungs are connected to grief. As calm as he was, I can now imagine that perhaps there was always far more living inside him than ever found its way into words.

I still remember curling up beside his legs during his final days, unable to understand why such a gentle soul had to leave.

At his funeral, everyone cried. My aunts, uncles, cousins, everyone was there. I was the first grandchild who had grown up close to him, and I had spent so much time by his side. Everyone cried except me. I remember not understanding that either. I had been so close to him, so why wasn’t I crying?

But I had my own way of grieving.

Flowers.

Week after week, month after month, I picked bouquets for his grave.

And that was how I grieved.