When I saw it–crushed and dried from the weight of someone else's foot–it made me think of her. Of childhood. Of our humble home on Meeker Street. I bent down to pick it up and I brought it home this morning. Because it made me think of her.

When we first moved into our home, the walls remained naked because, after all, food for dinner and car repairs took precedence. My mother picked up an odd job as a way to help with finances…and hopefully find a way to dress those walls. Every afternoon she'd pile us kids into the single car my parents shared and she'd drive us to 30 photo labs. The kind that were stand-alones in grocery store parking lots and all the rage in the 1980s. My sister and I catalogued the film and place them in a huge bag. At the end of our daily trips, we'd drop them off at the main lab, my sister and I each holding a side of the heavy plastic bag, my mother waiting in the idling car.

After months of driving, my mother saved enough to buy wallpaper. Not enough for the entire living room, but, undeterred, she said two wallpapered walls were better than none. We went as a family to Standard Brand and my mother combed through huge books of samples until she found the perfect paper. Off white paper covered with pressed english roses, in varying hues of mauve. Because mauve was so the color in the 1980s.

When I saw the pressed rose today on the ground during a morning walk, it made me think of her. Of childhood. Of our humble home on Meeker Street. I brought the rose home to remind me, today, that the little girl who'd drop off rolls of film has grown a bit. But I'm extraordinarily fortunate that I'm no longer delivering somebody else's pictures, I'm delivering my own.