The Blue Glass Vase

Two plastic plants, a blue glass vase of dead flowers, and a cactus. The cactus is the only living thing left of the four, and lucky it is, for it gives me hope that I can at least keep that alive. In the blue glass vase, there is a collection of white and red roses, all dead, all dried up. Back in the days of majesty, flowers had meaning beyond their beauty. Red roses symbolize a classic love, the kind you tolerate on Valentines Day, a bare minimum that rolls away like the red carpet, red as the blood your heart will spill, with this kind of love. White roses symbolize reverence, young love, and eternal loyalty, pledging yourself to someone you can only bow to, growing up only to realize promises can be broken. But these flowers on my desk have died, shrunk in size, diminished in prize. Where one might see shriveled hearts of flowers, I see beauty in their new forms, for they have taken on new hues, and therefore new meaning. The red has deepened to sweet wine maroon, and the white to velvet cream. Maroon roses take on deep rooted passion, a far cry from the superficial tenderness of the bright red. Unconscious beauties that know their worth, and are willing to wait. Cream colored roses embody thoughtfulness, grace, and richness. Taking time to make your life worth living, not giving your whole self to things that deserve none. These roses I keep in the blue glass vase on my desk are dead. They spent their lifetimes as white and red. How awful it must be

To only show your true colors when you’re gone.