She doesn’t knock the air from my lungs when she walks into a room; she breathes the life back into me. If she’s the flower blooming after the harshest winter, I’m the spring. I’m everything new and fresh, full of life and color and sunshine and hope, after it was all stolen from me the way the first bitter frost of winter steals the beauty of autumn. Rosie gives that all to me, and she has the nerve to sit here beside me and think she’s anything less than enchanting?
