Somewhere in one of my books, probably in a box, is an old pressed rose. Maybe two pressed roses. They are from Damon and I saved them all this time. I wonder how many people still press a flower in a book for sentimental reasons. I also have an old scrapbook with a pressed boutonniere, and small corsage from a time of promise and possibilities. A time when everything was new and the possibilities for the future were endless. I suddenly wish I could see it, and gently rub my finger across the weathered, dry petals. That velvety smoothness of days long ago now, that seem like yesterday or maybe the day before. I'm not living in the past. I'm longing for the happiness those days brought me. I'm no longer longing for people and things unattainable, but for the joy of that era. I long for love and happiness. I long for a peace of just knowing there's someone and something I can count on just being. That source of ...
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