Early American literature has its way of drilling into my brain and leaving it in pieces as a reminder that I am nothing more than a mediocre college student, attempting to fill in the lines with something extraordinary. Turning page after page, absolutely nothing is sticking, and the same sentence is read aloud twenty times over until I conjure up the image of blinding my eye with a highlighter. But on certain days, when the weather is warm, and I’m taking refuge in the only home that I know, reality pushes me into the most comforting set of arms I could ever imagine. I look up and before Franklin or Hamilton or Paine can drive me back into colonial insanity, he places a rose on the page of my book, filling the room with the joy I thought I had lost. Before I know it, he’s off to work again, and the floral scent carries my heart until the end of the day when I am happiest knowing that I can sleep under the covers and wake up to my favorite kiss good morning.