All of the good things worth writing about are deadened by putting them into words unless they’re deeply philosophical, in which case the writing is esoteric and jargony. Everyone knows the description is never as alive and content-rich as the thing itself.
Nonetheless, it’s a good exercise, at least for those of us revisiting happy memories, to press a flower’s severed glory into a page for the really special ones. At the very least, someone flipping through years on might imagine
They might imagine that—but it isn’t necessarily true, of course. It isn’t necessarily true, but, even still, they look at the thoughtful ode to a memory preserved in a once-living organism, and they think it must have been true.
I think that says enough.