The carnations on my desk begin to shrivel and wither. The vase was my great grandmothers, she always had pink carnations in it, so for 130 years that's what it's held. It has moved the length of a country, to the northern forests and southern shore, crossing at last the vast, wide ocean and landing in the desert West. Could she have imagined such a fate for her crystal? Could she imagine that four generations later it's still filled only with light pink carnations, so sweet in their countenance, so reliable in their tradition? What a marvel this life, after all, how small our tribulations in the grand scheme of things. What is a day's sorrow, compared to the wonder of a whole existence?
I sit outside later, long after the sun has set behind smoky moutains and the sky again has turned to an ocean of jewels, and I think of all the miracles it took just to get me here, too. It's hard to be despondent in gratitude. It's hard to be grateful, and not want to climb out of the ditch. Honor those who came before you, honor those who didn't make it all this way. One sunny morning in New York City, everything changed, and still the city remained for you to see it. This year in New York City, everything changed again, and still you remain. There's a whisper somewhere in you that has the answer.
Stick around. One day it will rise to a song, and you'll find you know it by heart.
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