My love for flowers began with my grandmother.
She lived close to nature. Flowers were part of her daily life — picked from the garden, placed in small jars, or pressed carefully between pages of books.
She loved jasmine the most. I still remember her making jasmine tea. The whole room would fill with its soft scent. Quiet. Comforting. Like her.
As a child, I didn’t think much of it. I just remember how calm everything felt when I was with her.
Time felt slower there. Even now, I still recognize that feeling. It comes back in small moments — opening a book and finding a pressed flower I forgot about, or catching the scent of dried petals that reminds me of warm evenings and fields at sunset.
When I was in my third year of university in Canada, she passed away.
I was studying for an exam I thought was important. I told myself I would visit later. But I didn’t make it in time for her funeral.
That is something I still carry. Not loudly. Just quietly, always there.
After that, flowers meant something different. When I collect them now, I think of her. I wonder what she would say if she saw me doing this. I think she would understand. Maybe even smile.
This is why I create pressed flower art. Not to decorate. But to remember. Each piece feels like a small conversation with her — something unspoken, but still alive in my hands.
Flowers don’t last forever. But memory does not leave in the same way. Through them, I am still with her. And I think, in some quiet way, she is still with me too.