I had never been the type of girl who longed for a man to give her roses. In fact, I used to despise flowers. I always thought that flowers couldn't possibly describe the love someone has for another, and I still stick to that. But today (we already had some flowers on our dining room table, an assortment of all kinds) I picked up a rose, the only one that hadn't withered, and I looked at it. It definitely was a beauty with ruffles in all the right places. It didn't have much of a scent any longer, yet I brought it up to my room.
There, I touched the petals. It had an almost calming effect on me. They were so unbelievably soft and delicate. Gently, I pulled off one petal. I marvelled at the contrast. The tips were a bit worn, and therefore the tips were a hint of black. The skin in the middle was coarse and you could see the texture of veins. At the bottom however it was a pure white. Just a dab of pure white in the middle, the hidden secret at the bottom. The rose was red, and the white was a startling contrast.
It's sort of like what happens to people. We grow older on the outside; the tips of us get worn. Those who love us however, will be able to see that white dab in the centre of our souls.
