My Dearest Flower,

You needed a gentle and steady love. You were never one for grand gestures. You loved to be loved but hated to be doted upon. Once a week I carried you to the sink in the palm of my left hand and fed you lightly. When once I returned you to your home, I gave you the space you for which you longed. We enjoyed a quiet and simple life. And in that sprang the belief that constancy and fragility were not mutually exclusive.

I believed that we shared a common bond; one that ensured our mutual survival: the possession of a strength great enough to support our delicacy. But it was not enough. The temperatures rose and the conditions become inhospitable. Our home became a desert where only the hardiest thrive and where the fragile were doomed to wilt away and die.

With every flower that fell from you, my heart broke further. Torn between love and hate and guilt I did not know what to do with them. They were not yet wilted or yellow–they looked as healthy and beautiful as when they were still a part of you. I spread them around our home. I formed them into patterns and placed them on the floor and on the table. But without your roots, they too began to yellow and die.

Your roots…It is your roots! Your life is in your roots! Your soul resides in the earth, beyond my gaze! It was me who was wilting. You are still there! I frantically look over to you as I write this. There you are: beautiful as ever! Still alive and annoyed that I have made such an embarrassing fuss over you.

“Wait til Thursday to make a fuss!”, you say.

“Forgive me,” I reply. “I lost sight of what matters. I’m still here.”

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