The white and red roses painted on the cup still looked beautiful. Petals created by an artist's brush could only provide a hint of their fragrance that did not promise an edible fruit. But it was enough to lean upon a definition of beauty that did not need a weigh scale or a measuring stick to cause her imagination to think about all of the memories that could be provoked when she had received a bouquet of red roses. Her mother had often gathered in a glass vase filled with lukewarm tap water, pale pink peonies cut from the garden - the ants carefully dusted from their folds before they could take up new residence on top of the dining room table. These were moments that time measured in a period of days where an ability to be present to a glory and final bloom was able to surpass life's discomforts if only for hours.
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