To Life,
I’m not exactly sure when it happened—the moment my roses dried out.
The day they came to me remains so vivid in my head; I could play the seconds out verbatim as if I were watching a recorded version of it like I was still living in that moment.
There were three knocks, each one subsequently opening my door up enough for a sliver of the world outside my room to peek in. Through that sliver peeked a warm, familiar smile and a small bouquet of flowers—my roses.
For no reason other than a monument of love did these flowers make a mark in my room.
Their sharp floral scent floated softly about my room as if they were asking everyone who passed by to notice it, and the way they blossomed, one couldn’t help but think it had lived the most fulfilling life. Blissfully, it lived.
I watched over them and tended to them as best as I could.
I wanted them to live: to survive.
Yet, each time I’d tend to my flourishing flowers, something would turn my head away. Each time my head turned—pulled by the incoherent buzzing of the day, by each task waiting to be crossed off my list, by all the responsibilities piling up on top of each other—time slipped by me.
But, even in death, my roses were still as enchanting as they had been in life.
Time slipped by until I felt the seconds blur together until everything simply felt constant: constantly working, constantly making commitments, constantly busy.
My world—my mind—went on autopilot; thoughtless actions and tired, starry eyes characterized my waking moments. All those minute distractions became a single one.
Finally, when time permitted, I turned my head back, but by then, my flowers had dried out.
The exact moment it happened, I could not say.
Its sharp floral scent had slithered away to somewhere far from near, and its lively color had washed out to something dark. It was not the flower I was given but something entirely different.
But even in death, my roses were still as enchanting as they had been in life.
Even as its scent had lifted and its color had converted into something different, it still looked as poiseful and gracious as ever, and although its petals had become brittle ever since, it still held its head up high—never breaking formation.
And so, once more, I fell in love with my roses.
And just as I had with the roses, I want to love you again, just as I once had.
Even as my head is pulled in every other direction, as every second begins to blur together, it is you that I want to come back to in the end—no matter the form you come in. Whether you are as lively as the day you first came to me or brittle in the moments left, I want to know you as I always have: a timeless, enchanting figure.
I want to start to fall in love with you all over again.
Love always,
Alysse
