Vergissmeinnicht

In the month of May, Dreifaltigkeitsfriedhof is nothing short of a sun-dappled oasis. The perfect site for a pleasant stroll beneath the trees—a brief reprieve from the unceasing bustle of central Berlin.

It’s a well trodden spot. Small clusters of tourists stand contemplatively at Felix Mendlessohn’s grave. Locals visit the resting places of relatives. Others simply wander aimlessly, soaking in the silence and sunlight.

Tucked away in some far corner, there are two graves which no one pays much mind to. One is new, still pristine; the other is older, a little weathered, a little worn. Its words are slightly faded, but easily readable to anyone who might pass.

Meike Allenbach-Maier

1983–1989

Mein Glühwürmchen

The few people that catch the other, newer grave in their glance are often certain, for a fraction of a second, that it also has an inscription. Then they realise they are mistaken, and move on.