A co-worker and I were talking about flowers. I was complaining that during my son’s senior night baseball game, I got a single rose instead of what my husband got- a baseball with a special note on it written by my son. I said I didn’t want flowers, I wanted my own baseball like he gave his dad at the ceremony. I said flowers die. My coworker told me he still has the single red rose from his first love. It’s in a vase in his home. It’s perfectly dried and just there. He told me a little about the back story. It was from his first love. He himself was selling roses out of the van on the side of the road, and this gentleman bought a dozen roses from him and in the end gave them back to him. I told him it was a neat story. I then told him about the three roses on my dad‘s lapel for his funeral. My brother took all three roses off before the casket was closed and gave them to my sister and I and himself. My rose stayed on the floor of my car for several months. At some point, in it’s dried out state, I couldn’t take it anymore. Just before going into IHOP to meet my girlfriend for breakfast, I threw it out of my truck. I felt I should at least make sure it was in the grass. So, now I wait for this new rose to wither and die, and then I can throw it away. I like to enjoy flowers still attached to Mother Earth. And, about the baseball. My son heard my complaints and told me if I get him a baseball, he’ll write me a special message, too. I’ll be looking for a spare one in the basement this weekend.