Already halfway through Virginia Andrews' classic cult novel Petals in the Wind, I just couldn't put it down. It had been some years since I had read the series, and an accidental viewing of the movie version of Flowers in the Attic enticed me to read Petals again.

I thought I'd tired of it already, the story having repeated itself uncountable times since I was 12. But no, it delivered much, and more. In fact, I found myself reading it with fresh eyes, eager to just get on with Cathy's turbulent and chaotic life.

It is now, when I have passed my thirtieth year that I can look back in retrospect my teenage years, my twenties, and the stupid and impulsive choices made when hurt. Oh, how I empathised with Cathy the pain of betrayal, but also shared with her the joys of family and a loving partner.

Petals in the Wind is our coming of age story. It is life in the extreme and if Cathy survived through it all, so should we. The taste of arrogant youth in all its glory and its lack of appreciation for its own temporality is sweet in retrospection but bitter in reflection.

We relive it in novels, memories, and movies. It makes the life we live infinitely longer, infinitely more precious. Thank you, Virginia, for immortalising youth's pain, and youth's beauty.