I looked at the flower the way one studies a door that will not open. Its pale folds kept a small, well-behaved light, as if the day had trained it to be modest. The color seemed borrowed from a promise I once made and forgot to fulfill. Each petal was a room adjoining another room, empty except for the soft sound of someone leaving. It leaned toward me, not to be touched, but to take attendance: are you still here? And I, late for such roll calls, answered without voice. The stem’s thin patience held it upright; even the leaves, torn into quiet greens, did not complain. I thought of the mornings I have promised to begin, the evenings I have failed politely, and how this single bloom manages, without any noise, to be both confession and witness. When the air moved, nothing changed. The flower kept its small order; the sky pretended to forgive it. I went away with the mild shame of being seen by something that will wilt sooner than I will, and yet seems to understand the terms of our life better than I ever have.
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