I unwrapped the cellophane and it wrinkled 'n crinkled as if my grandfather's face had been a thunderstorm when he died laughing. Laying the pinkish, translucent layer flat was only an option if I chose to believe in 2D; otherwise, the square of rice paper would remain a terrain.

I lifted the Chinese flower from the center of the cellophane square. Lotus pretty, Lotus symmetry, I stopped to smell this sister to the rose. It smelled of quiet, delicate serenity; the kind you learn before you die, your face a thunderstorm at the sky.

Atop the pile of pinewood I set the flower, and around its petals I set my match to timber.

As the flames furrowed into its white petals, she became no ordinary Chinese flower (if there ever was such a thing) -- from the pyre I could surely hear the sound of wizened laughter as thunder boomed toward the crystal sky.

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