I'm walking to work, on the verge of tears from spending a lonely Valentines Day lunch in my room alone. I run into my friend who has been a listening ear and a caring companion through my achings. He stands there, delivering a beautiful bouquet of flowers to his fiance; the classic symbol of love and affection. He sees me, smiles and says, after a long moment of awkward silent decision making of what to or not to say, "Anna, I want to give you something." He reaches in the back seat of his car and pulls out a thorned, dis-shoveled, wilted, crimson rose. Holding it out toward me he offers forth a "Happy Valentines Day." The rose, though disfigured and unhealthy was so beautiful to me. It sparkled and shimmered as it proclaimed its message of friendship, beauty, and thoughtfulness. It smelled of sweet music and felt of soft tenderness. One rose symbolizing such a vibrant theme becomes so much more desireable than a hundred roses of obligation and duty. That poor pitiful, wilted rose stands its head strong and brave above all the rest. Oh the beauty of a caring friend.
The pain just oozes out from anywhere it can find a place of escape. it writhes within me and eats my appitite, strangles my happiness, and steals the soundness of my sleep. It is an unwanted invador that may stay without my consent as long as he pleases.
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