I was at party with old work friends the other day and several of them said, “Rose is so beautiful. Do you realize how beautiful she is?”

Some days I see it—the shape of her face, the color of her eyes. I see an objective, aesthetic beauty. But most days no, I don’t. I look at her skin and see the flaws. Oh, she’s got a red patch over her lip again because I haven’t been making her use lotion. And what’s that on her cheek? Paint?

I look at her constantly. I look at her eyes, her chin, the set of her lips. Is she about to be pissy with me? Does she feel like being helpful? Is she tired? hungry? overwhelmed? Is she giddy? Does she want me to do something for her and doesn’t think I will? Does she think she can con me? Does she want me to guess the song she’s humming or get it wrong three times before I get it right?

Rose about to be mad is the worst. Her eyes slam shut. You can see the scream building along her jaw line, the lips about to erupt.

Rose joyful--her eyes sparkling, her chin reaching to the sky, her grin boundless—is breathtakingly beautiful.