The year after the church burned down, the town still hadn’t done anything about it. They’d cried, mourned those who had been trapped inside and talked considerably about rebuilding or erecting a memorial. Yet a year later and it was still an ashy hole.
When the anniversary rolled by many people visited the hole. They thought hard, prayed, wept, or stood silently and tried to think of something profound to say. Someone threw daisies into the ashes.
A half hour later new visitors saw those daisies and threw in some lilies. On the way home they spread news of the flowers, pollinating an idea. An hour later people of various gardens came with proper bouquets.
Some left floral arrangements where the steps had been. Others tossed handfuls of posies and roses.
By the next morning the site was a pit of wilting flowers. The city folk didn’t stop coming. They left their own flowers picked up from road stands and promised to return with some grander on Sunday. Some did, that Sunday and every Sunday, such every week the ash of the church was littered with colorful petals and an underbed of decay. These visitors were few, but a steady trickle.
Lots turned out for the second anniversary. More than half brought expensive flowers to pursue the ritual. They were surprised to find new flowers blossoming through the old offerings.