In the yard, at the corner of the half-rusty fence, a group of paper flowers bloom confidently. Their reddish orange color is like a sun that forgot to go out. Bright, striking, and a bit narcissistic. They don't know what humility is.
I used to think these flowers were made of real paper. Really. When I was little, I used to pinch one of the petals, hoping to find signs of less neat handicrafts, cut marks, or dried glue. But no. Nature is indeed more skilled than any human hand. Just look at the veins that stretch across the petals. It's like a complicated road map, only it doesn't lead anywhere.
In the middle, the white stamens stand like the main character who is not too striking. They are contrasting, but not excessive. Like a smart person in the middle of a social circle that is too noisy, even though they are there, but not always noticed.
The background is no less interesting. Green leaves with cream-colored edges, as if highlighted by the hand of God himself. Balanced. A color harmony that ordinary humans would never think of. I once tried to match this combination in a graphic design application, but somehow the results were never as beautiful as what was before my eyes. Maybe God does have his own color palette.
What is disturbing about these flowers is their durability. They are too strong. Unlike roses that can be picked and die in a day, or jasmine that falls before being admired for long. These paper flowers survive, continue to bloom, as if refusing to forget. Like memories that refuse to fade even though they have been tried to be forgotten.
But that's how they are. A group of brave paper flower petals. They do not bow their heads in shame like orchids, are not graceful like jasmine, are not as elegant as roses. They just stand, bright, challenging anyone who dares to underestimate the beauty that does not need recognition.
And secretly, I respect them.
