Precious

I'd never seen my dad handle anything else more delicately or with such caution except may be my own mother. He slowly inched down the stairs, holding the beautifully crafted and craved glass vasewith a rose inside. His eyes matched the vase, and then the steps ahead of him. Back and forth his focus switched for what seemed like forever to get down the stairs"Dad, why are you going so slow?" I asked him.

"This is very special and extremely delicate. It has so much value, it's probably worth the same amount as your car. It must be taken with extreme care."

He finally made it to the kitchen table and placed the vase and rose in the middle. "I wish I could think of a safer place, but it looks so nice displayed here. Don't you think?" he asked me.

"Yeah," I replied. Why was this so valuable?

He took a quick glance at his watch. "Well, I'm off to work. See you tonight kiddo."

"Alright," I greeted as he jetted out the door. I walked nearer to the table and studied the flower. A red rose. What could be it's significance? I realized it didn't matter. I had to take care of it, and for some reason my dad thought it'd be okay to just throw it in a vase and on the table. He himself said how valuable it was, so I wasn't planning on letting it wilt away on some table by a much-too-sunny-window.

For days I took care of that flower. I did all the research on how to best take care of roses. I did all of it. But after only a few days, the flower began to brown, and grow wrinkles and tears.I was baffled. Why would my dad place so much value in something he knew would quickly pass? But I held it in my hand. It was beautiful. Red, with the now-brownish color. Soft and smooth petals. These flowers much cost a fortune for their beauty and sincerity. I was beginning to understand it's value.A petal fell off as I admired it. I turned to my dad, finally getting a chance to ask him why this flower had so much value.

"Oh honey," he replied. "The flower means nothing. What was valuable was the VASE. I don't care about the rose. I can replace that any time."

I began to study the rose in my hand again. Why did it seem to even lose color just while talking about it with my dad? I did not see the value I possibly thought it could have anymore. Now it was just a dying flower. 

Still observing the rose, there will still a few red petals. I didn't think the flower was completely invaluable to me now, because the beautiful things I memorized about it were still true. It had value to me, precious to me, but this value just wasn't true to everyone else.