We have come close to the end. It has not been a full circle. Most great journeys never are. Even if we end up in the same place where we began, we are different. I like things to be neater than that; I’ve spent my life reconciling myself to the fact that they aren’t. Yet if we haven’t reached our happy ending, there remains good reason to rejoice. We have survived. We are here. I have written this, and you are reading it. Now we share something. There is beauty in that.
The blossoms you see here have long since withered and died. Yet here they are, documented and saved for many years to come. We have managed to still time; we have captured a bit of beauty. Though it’s in the past, I can describe to you the way these blossoms looked in the sunny light of summer, on a beautiful morning in late June when the birds were chirping and the day held all sorts of secrets and promises. I can tell you about the trajectory the sun made as it slowly moved across the sky, and how its warmth grew and expanded, how it drove us into the pool, and how we laughed and splashed. I can describe the pretty scents that surrounded us then – the richness of a rose or the sweet perfume of a mockorange or the mineral-like tang of water – and how those scents ebbed and flowed as the day went on. I can explain the form of a flower, in all its intricate scientific splendor and technical detail, but for that it’s better to simply look.
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