Black and White

Granny's yard, 1977

Granny’s yard, 1977

It was midday, just before the end of spring and sunlight had conquered everything. Despite the heat, the leafy pergola above his mother’s yard enclosed them in her natural cool shade. The sea was but some kilometres away, but the very idea of its presence invested the warm breeze with a soft aura. Some essence of the first flowery fragrances still lingered in the air and flowed downwards to meet the smell of fresh grass and the intense aroma of lemon and orange blossoms in the lower garden. The white bunches of the acacia blossoms sent their penetrating perfume up to their nostrils and exploded halfway upon encountering that irresistible redolence of the lilac on the hedge. How could one find the strength to get up from the chair when held captive by spring-tide?

So they lingered in their embrace, nested in the cobble-yard, facing the tall wide-ledge windows, as if caught in the midst of a fairy circle made up of smells, colours and the feeling of each-other’s tender presence.

He kissed her cheeks and he felt them like soft velvet peaches, he smelled her hair and thought he had plunged into a field decked with chamomile.

Funny. The feeling cake back as vivid as ever, every time he touched the faded little picture in the family album. So black and white. Unlike the memory of his daughter in it.

March 9, 2015

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