Oh pardon me, but Mister Three, why must you paint them red?

Younger daughter and I were descending the hill on Yates Street near our apartment building. In the distance, I could see the pearly-grey smudge of a large fire that destroyed an old deserted building downtown. I can no longer smell, but I felt the scratch at the back of my throat, and a hint of sour taste in my mouth, which reminded me of when the forest fires across BC had even sea-surrounded Victoria with an air quality index of !0+, worse than Beijing.

The sun shone brightly, though, and I veered suddenly into the pathway of the apartment next door. I had spotted a splash of scarlet amid the creamy blossom of a flowering shrub, and thought that surely, it must be from another plant.

It wasn't; it was indeed a lone red flower growing from the same bush. Younger daughter and I gazed at it, before continuing the journey down.

"It reminds me of the cards painting the roses in Alice in Wonderland," I remarked.

Younger daughter chuckled to herself.