There are pink roses blooming in the garden of a house where an aged woman who is ill lives. She was as gorgeous as the flower during her heydays. However, as time passed, and the storms of life took over, she was thrust into life's battles, and as she aged, her beauty began to diminish.
I thought I saw youth in her eyes when she smiled. Only it was gone in an instant - and was replaced by a blank stare instead. Her joy, short-lived, her eyes now projected pain.
Arthritis gnawed at her joints, a stark contrast to the effortless grace with which she once moved. Yet, as she gazed upon the entrancing blossoms, a flicker of that youthful fire returned to her eyes. The storms had battered her, but they hadn't extinguished her love for beauty. She was a testament to enduring strength, a fading rose, beautiful still in its quiet dignity.
The Garden was beautifully endowed with rose plants. Somedays the red ones bloomed, while the white ones were rare and few. However, when it did bloom, a butterfly came-a-calling. She said it was an angel in disguise, since it was white too. I looked out for the white butterfly when the white roses bloomed, but it never came by to fill me with the awe it did her. The butterfly came specially to uplift her spirits. On the days when it flew in the garden, she'd sit on her wheelchair and watch its antics from inside her room. She'd reflect on her garden with a view of roses. She'd forget the pain that bore her down.
She once told me, 'you can be wealthy, but if you don't have the health to enjoy your wealth, it will be worthless to you.'
Have a happy weekend everyone.
-shobana-
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