Not Roses, Obviously

I shouldn’t have come here really. I had no intention of walking this far. Haven’t got a clue how I’m going to get back home before dark, either. But isn’t this picture-postcard cottage worth the long trek and so much more? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a place as quaint and welcoming as this one. The faded red brick, the white paintwork, the upper windows twinkling in the sunset. The bottom two windows seem to be hugging the front door, while those climbing flowers embrace them all.

What do they call those flowers? Not roses, obviously. I do know those.  But I’ve never been very good with more complicated plant names. Aren’t they just the most gorgeous shade of lilac? And don’t they fill the whole earth with the scent of early summer and the promise of things to come?

I can’t wait.

I measure out three steps to one side of the gate, three to the other. Counting calms me down, gives me something to do. I remind myself to stand tall. I have to slow down, keep my distance, remember to breathe. I close my eyes and try to take in all the sounds, the warmth, the aroma of this perfect evening.

So what if I am not wanted here…

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25 thoughts on “Not Roses, Obviously”

  1. What a truly lovely description and closing paragraph, Marina !! Do you write books by any chance, you have the skill, it would seem ! (and I would translate them into French :-)))

    1. Thank you! I promise you, when I finish my novel, and if it gets bought by a French publisher as well, then you can be the one doing the translating…

    1. I love wisteria too, but alas, it’s not my house! Nor do I have any answers… but am pretty sure something nasty has happened or is about to happen.

  2. When is the next episode? you have the makings of a good story here that you can release to us in tantalising short passages, making us gag for the next and the next.

  3. Quick try :

    Je crois bien n’avoir jamais vu de lieu aussi pittoresque et aussi accueillant que celui-ci. Des briques d’un rouge délavé, des fenêtres peintes en blanc, celles du haut scintillant dans la lumière du soleil couchant, les deux du bas semblant étreindre la porte d’entrée et toutes ensemble enlacées par ces fleurs grimpantes.

    J’en mesure la largeur : trois pas d’un côté du portillon, trois de l’autre. Compter me calme, cela m’occupe. Je me dis que je dois prendre un air résolu, marcher plus lentement, ne pas trop m’approcher, ne pas oublier de respirer. Je ferme les yeux et cherche à m’imprégner de tous les sons de cette fin de journée parfaite, de sa chaleur, de sa senteur.

  4. It is your prose that is poetic 🙂 I find it inspiring and you have had nothing but praise, so more please 🙂

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