Last night I bought flowers. Today I'll drive out to the grave and leave them, in memory of the second anniversary of Laura's passing.
I bought tulips. They're red, but the edges of the blossom are wrinkled a bit and streaked with orange and yellow. None of the petals are perfect. Some are drooping out a bit too far, others are curled up a bit too tightly, as if they are shying away from thier breathren. One of the flowers has edges that have formed little spikey outgrowths. In size and shape, these spikey bits resemble a cat's claw, but yellow, with a red core. This one flower hasn't fully bloomed... it's still bound up tightly, more secretive than its vase-mates.
Laura wasn't perfect. She was assymetrical, wrinkled, and scarred. Life had left her with creases and dents, and more than a few spikey edges.
And I, I loved every square inch of her, from the tip of her sometimes bald head down to the bottoms of her toes. She was like a complex book that rewards your continued study, always revealing some new subtlety, some new hidden story. I cherished reading between her lines.
You'll know its love when the wrinkles become the reason. You'll know it's love when you trace the scars with your fingertips and remember the stories. You'll know it's love when you serenely fall into the flaws, and all the bumps and scuffs and ragged edges are more beautiful than a field of flowers.