The water pooled at the bottom of my vase is shallow and hot. My golden petals are shriveled and limp, and hardly golden anymore. The weight of my browning flower has become too much for my weak, skinny stem to bear. I hang my head now, but I used to be proud. My stem was sturdy and thick, a glistening emerald green. And my petals, my beautiful petals! Voluptuous and soft as velvet, they were richly yellow with a touch of orange, like sunlight shining off a piece of gold. I lived in a lush, bright field then, where my roots extended far and wide within the rich, wet soil. Now I’m trapped in this dirty vase—cup, really—on this dusty table, surrounded by stale candies and sun-bleached photographs of the dead. My roots were cut off of me long ago.

I’m meant to be a guide, a beacon, supposed to lead the souls of the dead to this altar with my strong, musky scent. Even when I was first plopped onto this dusty divinity, when my smell still struck, I saw no spirits. The ethereal, unearthly projections of the saggy-cheeked grandparents in the gold-framed photograph never appeared, nor did that of the green-eyed gangster or the gap-toothed little girl. I was visited by no one, no one but the ghost of my past-self in fragments of broken sleep. As for my scent, it has dissipated with the color of my petals. Surely no spirits will seek me now.

I wish a spirit would visit me. I’d like to ask them what it’s like to cross over. I’d like to be prepared.

When I’m gone, who will create such an ofrenda for me?