Flowers never fail to make me contemplate my own mortality.

Roses arrive from the florist fresh and youthful, folded in on themselves tightly, almost like a baby curled into a fetal position, so tender and adorable and filled with the promise of what’s still to come. Gradually — or overnight, like a child who adds an inch in his sleep — they unfurl their petals as if stretching growing limbs. In full bloom, they simply radiate beauty. But then, in just a matter of days, their petals loosen, like teeth breaking apart from tired gums or skin drooping under the joint assault of gravity and time. Their heads bow to rest, chin to stem. Along with the moisture that kept the petals soft and lush, the color evaporates. Soon, the roses are nothing but a dried shell, an echo of their previous beauty. But still beautiful.

I know that for a fact. I saved every rose Danny ever gave to me. As I carried a bouquet of roses from the same florist Danny had frequented all those years, the dried petals from all my Valentines and birthday and just-because bouquets dotted our church aisle. And then I happily let them go: One of our younger guests collected a handful to save as a memento of her first wedding. Old gave way to new, age gave way to youth. I’m watching it happen again this week with the anniversary bouquet Danny brought me from A Floral Boutique (disclosure necessary: They provided the gorgeous flowers, but I have to take the blame for the haphazard arrangement).

Here are my anniversary roses as I cradled them on Monday.
And again this morning.
In just a few more days, they’ll be faded, folded back in on themselves once again. But still beautiful. Age doesn’t have to mean the end of beauty. And I believe that whole-heartedly. Almost within arms’ reach of where my anniversary bouquet stands now, my wedding bouquet, dried and darkened, sits on the piano in my living room. It’s beautiful because of its composition, because of its deep, crackled colors, but it’s even more beautiful because of what it represents: The happiest day of my life, the beginning of something new, and the promise that every stage of life can be appreciated, whether lush and vibrant or dry and faded.

~ Laura