an old woman approaches us with flower crowns hanging around her arm. She’s not the first person I’ve seen selling them, and most people in our group walk right past her, but I slow my steps. The crowns are beautifully woven by hand, with bursts of yellow daisies and waxflowers and camellias. “We’ll take one,” Cyrus says, passing her the money. I turn to him in surprise. “I was just looking.” “I know,” he tells me, and takes his time choosing the crown with the brightest, fullest flowers, before setting it down gently on my head like this is my coronation. “My grandmother used to sell these
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