My mind is on flowers this morning, the morning of the anniversary of your birth. It is also on pain, but mostly on flowers because you loved flowers and knew all their names. I was indifferent to them and could never remember their names. You loved them because of the way they looked when we brought them home. I did not care much for them because of the way they looked when we took them out. That never bothered you. They reminded you of life, you said. They reminded me of death, I argued – the death of beauty. You always dismissed that argument and concluded I was probably aesthetically challenged. Afraid that I may afflict the girls, you spent considerable amount of time trying to fix that. It is funny how the daffodil and the rest of your fragrant friends now provide the perfect metaphor for your life, my love. You were the one flower in full bloom that was meant to last a long time. Now you do. You won.