These are my birthday roses from March.
They are still in my room. I can’t seem to throw them away. I move them from corner to corner, on the window sill or even on the floor. I keep them on display, I keep them safe.
I find them still so beautiful, helpless, delicately holding their pose, admiring their nature, to be roses, at every stage of their lives. Drooping slowly, slowly, and yet frozen dead- their bloom alive only as memory. I’ve drawn them, I’ve got lots of photos and I tell them, “You’re still important to me, I won’t forget you. I know that art can turn you into forever. Don’t fear the inevitable, I will cheer you on and see your beauty until No More is Now.”
I enjoy protecting them, I enjoy them because I am inspired and I’m moved by their story still alive (at least with me). Sometimes it becomes very difficult to leave the house because who will watch them, or love them, really SEE them like I do? Sometimes I worry, who will hold and love these flowers, in their uncomfortable moments as delicately as I can.
To me they are still singing. I nurture them as I enjoy their song.
It is my song too.