pressed flowers

growing up, I would pick tiny flowers with my elderly neighbor whom i lovingly called “nanny.” her fragile frame did not diminish her strong will and intense love. i pressed violets between pieces of paper, arranged them in a frame and gave them to her as a gift that she kept in her home. when she passed away, her daughter gave the frame back to me, and i was both dismayed and intrigued that the flowers had lost their vibrant color and faded over time. not long after, i was aware that the image i had of nanny in my mind was also fading (or rather changing) as the world expanded around me. preserved memories are much like pressed flowers - they do not hold the same vivid color or intensity of the original moment, but in their faded beauty, they hold the essence of our existence.