The last year of my grandmother's life was nonverbal. Having spent so much time together during her decline, when she fell silent I was the only one left able to communicate with her, becoming the gatekeeper to her world. When sounds were no longer helpful and she lost the ability to grip a pen, we held conversation by writing in the palm of my hand. I spent thousands of hours with my grandmother, communicating by fingertip. I developed a new appreciation for conversation when it slowed down to scribbles on flesh.

She was upset the afternoon our dining room was emptied and renovated into her dying room. She had already been nonverbal for seven months and transitions like this reinforced the reality that death was here. While everyone else witnessed a stoic woman facing her mortality in quiet resignation, my grandmother penned in my palm some of the most heartbreaking expressions of sadness and grief as her death neared. Some so harrowing I'll never forget, scares carved into the palm of my hand.

Every Friday since the room conversation I visited our neighborhood florist for flowers to liven our dining with death. Sometimes I'd purchase exotic bouquets and other times simply handfuls of irises or tulips, it didn't matter much as long as they were fresh. One Thursday night while getting her ready for bed I asked if she had any requests for tomorrow's florist. She shook her head, reached out for my palm and wrote, "LIKE SURPRISE." When there isn't much to look forward to, you create the opportunities yourself.

In a large box I collected every flower petal that passed through our house during the course of my grandmother's death. A few weeks after she died I emptied the box of dried petals onto the workbench in our garage and began shifting through them as I poured out my grief. These were the results.