FLOWER
A withered flower lies forgotten
Inside a book, before my eyes:
My soul awakes, all of the sudden,
And I begin to fantasize:
Where did it grow? Among which plants?
How long ago? And picked by whom,
By foreign or familiar hands?
Did it already start to bloom?
Placed here in tribute to a date,
Or to a fateful separation?
Or to a stroll under the shade,
Alone, without a destination?
Is he or she alive today?
Where did they find their hidden nook?
Or did they also fade away,
Just like this flower in the book?
-Alexander Pushkin
Translated by Andrey Kneller
Gladsome Lights 
Nice poem. I read a different translation but I didn’t like it nearly as much.
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An apt choice: I was looking up something in last year’s diary when a page fell open containing the (now well pressed) daisy my granddaughter picked for me while we were walking in Norway. The memories came rushing back!
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That is a sweet story! The counterpart for me is typically pebbles or acorns in my pockets!
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I once had an old book that belonged to the grandmother I never met. When I opened it, I found some flowers pressed between the pages, as well as an ornate valentine. Eventually the flowers distintegrated outside the book, but I still have the valentine, and the memories.
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What a special connection to your grandmother. I think most people use flower presses made specifically for the purpose, and some of those dry the flowers in the microwave; but your story makes me want to start putting flowers into my books, as messages to the future.
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Given that my grandmother was born c.1896, I can guarantee she didn’t have a microwave! I never knew her; she died when my mother was sixteen.
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