In her garden it’s the sweet perfume that I remember. Her little bed of roses.
She broke her back in a car accident in the 1930’s and was bent over and frail. We used to laugh saying she was so wrinkled that her wrinkles had wrinkles. She was strict and made us eat things we didn’t like, but always only one or two bites. Because of her I will try anything once……
Because of her I love the fading grandeur of roses, of crumpled faces and the curled up edges of smiling eyes. In a world paranoid about aging I still love the beauty of autumn leaves, vulnerable yet eye catching as any bud in spring.
The gravelly voice, would repeat her favourite rhyme, “her foot slipped, down she fell and broke her alikaboozalam” I never tired of hearing it or of gazing into that puckered up old face full of joy.
PS Updated portfolio based on the seasons here