A 21 year-old woman named Flora died in 1874, and was buried in Jackson’s cemetery. Her gravestone has long since fallen over and cracked. It now lies in the shade of flowering weeds. I stood over the stone to make this image, taking care to include a pink plastic flower left by a compassionate human. Flora’s very name ironically speaks of flowers, the work of nature. In death, flowers – both real and imagined – have become her companions.