“You remind me of myself,” my mother says as she cups one of her beloved dragon flowers and stares into its core, as if her eyes could will it to unfold. “You’ve missed the bloom,” I say a little disheartened. I knew how much she wanted to see it. She was busy last night. She sighs. “I call this a virgin flower,” she begins, “if you don’t enjoy it in its one night of bloom, you’ll miss this beauty forever.” I chuckle. She takes a hold of my hand and pulls me in to see what the fuss is about. My heart sank as I stared at the flower woefully, pleading for it to bloom just one more night. Its central petals were the color of meringue creme and the surrounding skirt of outer petals were a deep shade of lemon. I was temporarily mesmerized by its exquisiteness. What a piece of work, I mused. The flower was the size of my hand! And yet, it didn’t matter that my mother tended to this flower for so many months only to miss its bloom. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” She asks. “It’s gorgeous,” I say, distracted. A few minutes of silence wander through the air like a fragrance as we stare at the flower, unwilling to let go. I finally pull away after a moment and look at my mother. “Hey mum?” I ask, “how do I remind you of yourself?” She sighs again, smiling as she turns to me. The softness of her palm rests against my cheek. There is a glow about her. “You listen to me, as I did with my mother,” she says.