Shaking and quivering the rosebud still wet with dew poked her head from among the leaves and blinked in the sunlight. Her frail petals, pink and soft, blew in the gentle wind. As the day walked on, the sun shined brighter and stole the moisture from underneath the bud’s leaves. She began to pant in thirst and the very ends of her green gown began to curl, shrivel and wilt. A squirrel raced by and knocked her down to the ground where she lay stunned for a second before slowly pulling herself back up. The previously gentle wind grew in force and whipped about her tearing and ripping her wilting pink halo. One of her arms snapped and out leaked a single, juicy tear. Then the rain came. At first it was salvation, sweet and wet, soothing her parched throat and reviving her shriveled skirt. It washed away the tear and cleaned the wound, but it wouldn’t stop coming. She was choking now. She couldn’t breath. It ceased to soak into her feet and began to climb up around her waist until she waded in it. A deer approached her and to her horror, shiny, white teeth descended toward her head and ripped it from her waterlogged body. She couldn’t see, she couldn’t feel, she couldn’t breath. Surely this was the end. Over time, new, soft and pink petals bloomed and blushed at the sun. She looked through her new eyes at her body and gasped and shuddered in horror. Her tender, green form had grown into a sturdy, tall and knobby trunk, and in place of the fuzzy hairs that used to grace her, had grown long, menacing thorns, defensive against the onslaughts of the world. The dew of the morning, streamed down her face, in sympathetic tears. Her dress, which used to be soft and light green had become tough and dark, having grown accustomed to the harshness of the sun. The rain came again, but she had grown and now soaked all it gave into her soles. Even so, a small puddle gathered at her knees and she glanced into it, gazing at her reflection. Staring back at her was not an innocent, naive, frail, quivering, pink bud, but instead a stunning rose, bursting in lush, deep magenta petals, fierce and beautiful. The wind came, no longer grinding her in the dirt but only pushing at her side. The sun beat down and still curled the ends of her leaves but no longer pierced her heart. The rain rushed at her but she drank it all. The deer came and bit at her petals but she patiently and proudly replaced them, increasingly more beautiful than before. She did not choose to be battered, beaten, soaked, and eaten. She did choose not to batter, beat, soak or eat those around her and that was the most beautiful thing of all.
