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My garden grows beautiful roses. I go out in the early morning when the dew is still on the blooms and choose a full near-bursting bud. The petals are thick, rich in color and velvety soft to the touch. I cut the stem at a sharp exposing angle and plunge it immediately into a waiting vase of warm water...this, I am told, keeps flowers fresh the longest.

The youthful rose reigns over the shiny black grand piano where it poses on the music shelf. Every time I pass it, I sniff for the sweetness it promises. On the first day, the rose stands frozen, barely relaxing its closely held petals. Its scent is very mild, nearly undetectable.

The second day, the petals begin to unfurl, releasing a toxic fragrance and showing off an alluring pink brightness. By day three, the rose is spread in all of its glory. Each petal is a curve of lush pinkness, sending a sweet scent to the entire room.

There is a droop by the end of day three that carries over to the fourth day with a thinning of the petals' edges. By day five, the flower is splayed indecently, its stamen on their swollen base dusty with yellow pollen. The dryness of the petals is beginning to warp their edges and curl them in a dark magenta line.

On day six I consider removing the flower from the vase, except that it still is hanging on bravely to the now browning petals, so I give it one more day.

Now on day seven, the first wilted petal falls, and I know it is only a matter of hours until they all lay on the yellow dusted piano. It no longer smells sweet, but rather musty and stale.

I carry the expired bud to the trash and think how unfair it was that the glory of the bloom lasted only a few days, while the demise of its beauty took four. The flower spent twice as much time dying as it did achieving its peak.

I look at my own aging 55 year old hands, careful not to snag the thinning skin on a rose thorn.