Rose at 8:06 a.m.
For the last twenty-five years, the scent of roses has always meant love to me. It has carried nothing but positive connotations - love, affection, beauty, tenderness. A rose has always smelt like something warm and beautiful. Even Blake, in The Sick Rose , writes, “O Rose thou art sick”, drawing upon the rose as a symbol of beauty, innocence, purity and life. But today, something about that scent was different. This morning, I was riding my scooter to the metro, as I do on most days. It was an ordinary morning, nothing particularly unusual about it, until I suddenly caught the smell of roses. It lasted only for a couple of seconds, but it was distinct enough for me to notice. There were no roses around me, and I couldn't tell where the scent had come from. While riding, I twisted my right wrist to look at my watch. I wear my watch on my right hand, the same hand on the accelerator, but I couldn't see the time because the watch had turned to the other side. I took my hand off t...