October 9, 1927.

Love. Such an interesting word that fathoms so many thoughts- the image of a couple laughing together, a mother with her child, marriage. Such a small word that holds such a large meaning, this is a phenomenon in itself. Others say that minor acts have no effect upon major situations, but I disagree completely.

My name is Rose De Fleur. I was born in Venice Italy, October 9th, 1313, better known as the Italian Renaissance. My birth however isn't the most appealing of all births, not that many are appealing. On the day of my birth, my mother, expecting a son had exactly what she wanted - only two of them. My father, who was against the birth and strongly supported abortion since day one, was enraged at this. He could barely accept one child, much less two. He swore to my mother that he would leave her if she were to keep both children. My poor mother, who could not support herself at all with ought a husband was in complete shock at this, but had no choice to accept. My father suggested that they either kill the child, of they give it up for adoption, but neither of those were done. My mother decided that if the baby was destined to die early, it should die in the place it was born, in the same house, and in that same room.

I was the unlucky one left.

Screaming and crying in this wooden shaft of a house, myself as an infant was in need of help, of support, of love. As my parents left the small, wooden raggedy shaft, as they entered the canoe of a fairy-man on his way to Florence, as they settled down in their new foundation, I began to fade in this natural fabric known as memory. My own family remembered me less and less until a moment came where they even forgot that my twin brother, Violet de Fleur was a twin.

One person did remember me, however. On the day of my parents departure, a man on a night stroll heard the feint voice of my screaming. Usually, if a baby cries no one would think much of it, considering they have parents, but it seems that I cried a tad bit too loudly, praise god for my rowdiness . Rushing towards my home, following the noise of me wailing, the man eventual found a small infant covered in blood. He took me in as his own, raised me, and taught me that which I new not.

This man was an Arab. Seeing and Arab in Venice isn't the most common sight at all. He had a nicely groomed beard, short kept hair which was wrapped in a turban, and he was constantly wearing a Qamese, or a traditional Arab robe. The two of us stood out in public, me in m all-black clothing and scarlet hair, and him in his all white clothing and brown hair. He was about 6 feet tall, and was extremely kind to me. Still, until this day I recall his amazing teachings about loving your neighbor and brother, and caring for the as you were to care for yourself. What stuck to me especially was his teaching of orphans, and how neglection of an orphan is as bad as homicide. Thinking back on my life, I think he's right, if he didn't feel so much love towards orphans, I wouldn't be writing in this journal.

Oh life, with your strange series of events, why do I love thee so?

I only learned the story of my birth from a letter I received not to recently. It held the symbol of a Dandelion, the de Fleur icon. The letter was signed "With love, your long lost brother, Violet de Fleur." I suppose I'm wrong then, it seems I haven't been completely forgotten yet.

My childhood has been quite wild. Nothing made sense, yet I loved every moment of it. The again, what is love?

The Arab man who took me in, whose name was Ahmad, went back to his home in Saudi Arabia about two months ago, and I miss him already. Please forgive me, journal, for boring you, I only felt the need to reflect upon my life.

Today I turn fourteen. Happy birthday to me.

~Rose