From the inside looking out, life doesn’t appear rose-colored when you know most people – including yourself – may one day die just like a rose: dried out by trouble and time, fragile and shriveled, scent faded to odor, color bled away, shrunken parts vulnerable to each and every touch, head bowed and apologetic in demise. Now I know better than to mourn when my life ends before it begins. How much more graceful to be cut from a bush and turned upside down immediately after bloom, preserved for a near eternity before a crumbling explosion of blossoms too ashlike to ever be put back together again. I’m content to remain like a flower seed, tumbling in and around and throughout the earth, languishing in the possibility and potential because birth always brings consequences of confusion, sadness, disappointment, then death. (2)
What is utterly fascinating about this paragraph? The narrator is an unborn child. What a daring move on the part of Buckhanon. I can’t wait to get into this book more.