My love of flowers joined forces with a religious ceremony (that took place during the first week in May) at my Catholic elementary school, which made the "Day of Mary"(I have forgotten the name) my favorite day of the school year. I thought the contribution of a simple flower made by each student was beautiful. The special day required early rising in order to have ample time to pick the perfect flower and prepare its preservation. I remember scurrying along our gravel driveway toward the rose garden, carefully studying all of the roses before I stepped in to the bed in order to avoid disturbing the delicate life of the roses. Every year, the air was misty with a glimmer of the morning sun gently rising, illuminating the fruits of my mother’s diligent care. Dew droplets scattered softly on the roses’ petals. After inspecting each of the rose bushels, I would step inside the bed gently tiptoeing towards the  bushel that held the brightest and strongest roses. I would select a rose in full bloom, snip the stem, and softly place the bottom of the bud between my fingers to avoid the thorns’ piercing points. My gleeful tiptoe transformed into a sprint once I felt the gravel under my feet. Although wilting was inevitable, it was a process that I tediously tried to prevent. Wet paper towels were prepared to blanket the rose in moisture for its journey to the church. As I walked up to the altar, I was so proud of my rose and I was sure that Mary was honored by the careful deliberation I spent to ensure that she had the perfect gift. After the ceremony, I would stare in awe at the sight before me. Hundreds of colors and shapes abounded below the feet of Mary. My wonder ended, saddened by reality as I watched the janitors dump the flowers in the trash at the end of the day.