In a clear glass vase, the flowers stand tall, only their heads nodding, arcing gently from the stems. These carnations have been cut from the ground, existing now on their last leg of life, but you wouldn’t guess it. They glow softly, like velvet in the light: Deep red and gorgeous, a hue set somewhere on the spectrum between blood and raspberries. Full-bodied depth, the way only something real and living can be.

They entice you to scent their centres, to bury your nose in their delicate petals. You do.

The fragrance is pure and sweet and subtle. Unlike a rose, it is not overpowering but tender and mild. You imagine vast, sunny gardens touched by a breezy summer wind: Flower upon flower in a field of grasses. Dark red blooms oscillating gently in a distant meadow. Windswept blossoms full of birds and bees. The sweet taste of nectar on the tongue of a butterfly.

This is how a flower is supposed to smell, look, feel. Nothing is more beautiful or more barbaric than a vase of dying beauty.

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Amanda Slinger / Copy Editor