I’m grateful for…

Roses. A red blossom pinned to my lapel. A yellow bouquet on the first date. White petals on a coffin. Flower girls at weddings decorating the aisle. And recently, flowers for myself.

I walked into the sort of grocery store where smiles are a customer service commandment. I stood for five minutes investigating rose varieties, eucalyptus, baby’s breath, and assorted leafage. I walked out short of sixteen dollars and three pennies.

Vibrant red roses now rest by my breakfast window. I bunched their stems together, cut them even, stripped their leaves, and fed them water. I arranged their blossoms where the sun could kiss them on the cheek.

Each day, there’s something remindful that I love myself. I love myself like those petals glow at dawn.

Roses are what I’m grateful for, because their beauty fades. Roses teach grief. They prick fingers; they wilt; they decorate death. When the last petal falls, I remember life isn’t permanent.

There’s nothing wrong with saying to yourself, “I love you,” one wilted petal at a time. And saying it like you might never get to say it again.