Last winter I decided to visit my friend. I sat by his grave, remembering the good times we had. Our school picnic, my first crush, his birthday party, we were still talking when my eyes were drawn to a nearby grave, it was covered in flowers, whites, reds, oranges, it was mesmerizing sight.
Hurriedly bidding Varun goodbye, I got up and went to the other grave, it was unmarked, but for the epitaph, “lay down a flower, dear believer, and I will ask the Lord to forgive your sins and pray for you.” I kept standing there for a while, and then decided to ask the priest whose grave was it.
The priest pointed to a little boy in torn clothes and a broken pencil, who was hurriedly coping notes in a diary. “His father” said the priest, “he had promised his son, that no matter where he was he would never let him sleep on an empty stomach.”
And every morning, the little boy sold the flowers, that lay by his father’s grave.