The picture isn't doing it justice, trust me, the bloom was larger than my outstretched hand (spider's legs fingers included).
I had an uncle who loved roses, I'm not really sure why. He never told me. I never asked. But we all knew he thought they were beautiful, and they were his favorite of all flowers. I think I can see why, now.
There's something so safe in the reserved nature of a tightly rolled bud. Long, and sleek; protected. In full bloom there is also much to appreciate. Vulnerability at its best, I think. Delicate, open, and unafraid all at once.
If "HERE I AM!" could be screamed without causing a sound, I think she's figured out how to do it.