This is a rose from the burial of my husband's mother this August.
I had put it in an interior pouch of my purse. Then it was scarlet,
round, and soft. I forgot it was there. The other day I was cleaning
out my purse, getting ready to change over into the new purse my own
mother had bought me for Christmas, when I found it. It amazed me
to pull it out. It had been flattened and had dried in the dark, alone
in its zippered compartment. The red had turned to deep gold, with
a last bit of pigment surviving as a magenta bleed at petal's rim.
But it's incredibly fragile. A touch will crumble a leaf's edge.
Somehow it survived, even with cell phones, wallets, hair brushes,
and sunglasses knocking about in there beside it, in other compartments.
I like that---how unexpectedly strong something presumed fragile can turn
out to be. Faded, but still beautiful and holding together when removed
from its compartment and examined in the present. Like memories.