I’ve been using one of the funeral wreaths as a Christmas decoration; an intricately-woven wicker circle with white roses, lilies and sprays of delicate powdery green fern.
But the flowers are now dying.
I’ve saved a couple of the best ones, layered them between two sheets of grease-proof paper and under a pile of books. When they’ve dried I’ll add them to the memory box. The rest go to my father’s compost heap, and then back onto the garden she loved. The wicker circle I keep. I’ll re-decorate it for next Christmas with artificial flowers and berries. Mum would have approved of that as well; she adored Christmas.
And so the circle of the year, and of life, rolls on. There’s some comfort in that.