My sister’s name is was Kaori. Florence. The fragrance of flowers. The comportment of the flower upon itself. The epistemology of flora. It is but a mundane namesake for a little girl.

I wish she got to experience flowers as a gesture. Flowers as a gift from a lover.

Perhaps I wished too hard. Our soil is so toxic we can no longer grow food from it. Today, all the soil is good for is growing beautiful flowers that give us air to breathe but nothing safe to put in the body.

You are a flower I cannot consume, meant only to draw from world I look upon so lovingly; meant only to give me air, something to fixate upon while we succumb to hunger.

In our conversation, Kaori holds my hand. My hand is electrified from the touch. She says:

Let go. It is the only way you can hold what’s coming next.