Daddy would love them.” “He really would,” Clara whispered, her throat tightening with a warmth that was equal parts grief and love.

It struck her, kneeling there, how a six-year-old could reach the truth of a thing so directly.

The flowers did look happy, bright and full in the crystal vase Lupita had found, opened wide in the morning sun.

A day earlier they had been bruised and drooping, mocked at a front desk, nearly left to wither in a dark room.

And now they were exactly what a memorial should be, not a symbol of loss but of a love that goes on being tended, year after year, by the people who remember.