10.1.18 Christmas rose. Living room.
I have a habit of leaving flowers in vases long past their best, until they are puckered and wrinkled, dropping petals and manners. It's not from idleness, more a kind of lived intention: I don't give up on things. I want to love beyond first bloom and easy convenience, all through their changing and fading. I want to see what happens when things stop being perfect. Love without curiosity is short-lived and I want a life where love doesn't run out, to see things for everything they are. And so I let my flowers turn every colour they know, change their shape, cast new shadows, in defiance and in pride. Perhaps, I think, if I do, it will help me love my people better too. Myself, even.
Someone I love very much sent these roses for Christmas. Today, as I picked them out of brown and withered foliage to stay a little longer, an early birthday card landed on the doormat bearing their same distinctive handwriting. I didn't open it; I pressed it to my still-fevered face like cool hands.
I have never been afraid of getting older. I find myself looking forward to seeing what my own changing looks like, a slow fade or a bright riot, what crisping and sloughing and new blush I have waiting. I think it could be beautiful.