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Looking up at the collection of flowers - simple, refined, selected for their uniform color - one stared back at me, unlike the rest. Black and white. A strong center hosting whispy wings. An anemone. It felt like a hug from the florist. A moment of expression, briefly breaking from the assigned arrangement, her support conveyed softly through a stem. Later that evening, my brother handed me a flower he brought home, one for each of us he said, to remember the day. The anemone.
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