Dirt falls from my hands, as I shift some closer to the plantís base. It blooms with small, off-white flowers, fragrant.
The scent reminds me ofÖfamily. Mother. And, peculiarly enough, Boromir. She kept their dried petals in an open box, on her writing desk, something I do not remember but have been told so many times.
Boromir told the gardeners to bring him their first blooms every year, to lie atop his roomís mantelpiece. Romantic: he would choose to remember Mother in that fashion.
No more romantic than you tending a garden to grow them, Boromir whispers in my mind.