perfection can never survive
"On my way home I pass a bodega, whose awning shelters row upon row of bright flowers from the Februrary drizzle. I carefully pick out two dozen magnificent white roses for only $8 and carry them home like it's Valentines Day. But theyre just for me. I rummage for the vase that came with the flowers Nancy gave me when I came home from electroshock treatment at Gracie Square a few years ago, put my finger under the faucet until the water gets cold, fill it all the way up, pour in a packet of the magic plant powder, and then arrange the perfect roses and place themon my cherrywood abnd slate-top desk next to my computer. They no longer look white against the white walls, but ivory. The stems are bright green and sturdy, supporting the delicate blooms, which I love to stroke with my fingers. They feel silky and are almost translucent. As the days pass, I watch thte roses unfold and hear them crackle as they open. I also notice that the water level is decreasing; they are thirsty, and I replenish their supply. I s there anything else I can do for them? I promise to keep them alive until the first day of spring. The roses open to grand proportions I've never noticed before. Had I never paid attention? I hear them crackle as I gaze at the screen and hit the keyboard. I stop what I'm doing and stare at them to examine them as they expand. Grasping the vase, I turn the bouquet in a circle and look for the one rose that is really making progess. "There it is," I shout. "That's the cuplrit." It's standing taller than the rest, and I can actually see it moving in slow motion. I'm impressed by the beauty of these roses, and all I can do for them is caress the petals lightly and take care of them. "Maybe roses need sunlight," I think. The room smells frangrant, and I am indebted to each of the twenty-four roses.
This morning I wake up early to chck my e-mail. When I look over at the roses, I see that they're no longer ivory -more beige now, tinged with brown. I try pulling off some of the discolered petals. It helps a little. But they're becoming shapeless and abstract, no longer the crisp and vital buds I bought a week ago, they won't see spring. But I don't need them to stay perfect anymore. They have their own vanishing beauty and that's fine with me."
This morning I wake up early to chck my e-mail. When I look over at the roses, I see that they're no longer ivory -more beige now, tinged with brown. I try pulling off some of the discolered petals. It helps a little. But they're becoming shapeless and abstract, no longer the crisp and vital buds I bought a week ago, they won't see spring. But I don't need them to stay perfect anymore. They have their own vanishing beauty and that's fine with me."