Memories bring back with them emotions, time that has passed, people, animates, inanimate objects and more memories. Memories brought with it a desire for the fragrance of flowers that had bloomed years ago. So, I brought down the book which held some flowers and petals in them, pressed for all the unnamed years. Joy seemed a word mild to express the emotion that welled up within. Hands warmed with the breath that flowed from the pressed memories. Achromatic they appeared, losing their vibrant colours and fragrance to the years of perpetuation. With care, as I picked them up one by one and held them in my hand, with remedied vision from the same old pair of eyes, which was trying to see what they had missed earlier, they seem to slowly come to life. Colour and fragrance slowly revived. Pressed they were, but alive, beautiful, warm and earnest. Contrition that I may have earlier failed to observe the apparent popped with pain. The pressed objects hinted a protected preservation and continuity. Dead, but way alive and timeless. Grateful and redeemed that I had the chance to realise now. Thankful for a second grasp in life.
