The shallow pool of water at the bottom of my vase is stale 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, so I hang my head. I used to be proud. My stem was strong and thick, a glistening emerald green. And my petals, my beautiful petals! Voluptuous and as soft as velvet, they were deep yellow with a touch of orange, like sunlight shining off a piece of gold. I lived in a lush, bright field then, where my long roots dug into the rich, wet soil. Now I live in a dirty vase – a cup, really – on a 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, meant to lead the souls of the dead to this altar with my strong, musky scent. Even when I was first plopped onto this dusty table in this dusty hallway, 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 out 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?