It was a gift. She carried it in a little white box with pink ribbon and delivered it to me. When I peered inside, it smiled back at me: a buttery-yellow cookie, cut out in the shape of the Eiffel Tower.

For two years, we had stumbled and stuttered our way through the French language. We had finally mastered the foundation of “le imparfait, le passé compose, et le conditionnel.” The gift marked our graduation into year three.

But the cookie represented more than just my fascination of French culture. It was dusted with sparkling sugar crystals, each twinkling like the city lights of Paris. In Paris, a girl could waltz through the Luxembourg Gardens and float on the gentle waters of the Seine. The outdoor cafes would ring with the clinking of wine glasses, toasting the beauty of love.

French culture entranced me. It was the homeland of the world’s greatest artists and poets. It seduced that part of my soul that adored anything written, spoken, or painted with romance. I was a fool for its beauty.

When I took my first bite of that buttery-yellow cookie, it saddened me to see something so brilliantly crafted be destroyed. Someone had labored over its sugary dough. Someone had trimmed the cookie into a glistening tower and placed it into an oven until its edges became lightly toasted. But I knew more beauty would be created. Life is too enchanting for an artist to stop. Even tragedy has a bitter beauty woven into its fabric.

And so long as life is beautiful, the soul will find a means for expressing it.