Nia Jolivet
The box was in a pile of junk at the bottom of the stairs. My grandmother was ready to donate bags and crates of unnecessary items to the “Salvation Army”. The roses caught my eyes at first sight. There has always been something so attractive about them to me. Maybe it’s their elegance, appearing in places you’d never expect but looking beautiful, nonetheless. Maybe it’s the way their petals fall onto the ground so gracefully, as if that was their destination in the first place. Or, maybe it’s because the focus of the rose is at the top. Beautiful vibrant colors in an incomparable swirl but as you move farther down, you find thorns and rough leaves on a dark green stem. You find imperfections on a petal that remind you of bird tracks running aimlessly through freshly fallen snow or a bleeding marker on blank white paper. The beauty of the sweet quintessential smell of a rose with the pain of pricking your finger on a thorn brings you comfort and discomfort at the exact same time. Maybe that’s the way life should be, comfortable to an extent but discomfort should always be present too. Life always throws you periods of discomfort to test you more than you could imagine but in the end, those formidable seasons of your life make you stronger, just like a rose.