lupercalia. crocus angustifolius (x stellaria).
– lunaria in a vase
– seven plundered devon shells on a bathroom shelf
– an antique map of nevada
– and a framed black and white illustration of the aurora, dated 1823.
i celebrate my new home, though it’s the size of a stamp, and there’s no pool or gym or balcony like i had in las vegas or los angeles, with a picnic on the floor. brie and raspberries and what’s more, just down the road from me, an elderly lady wearing denim dungarees and a straw hat is planting yellow and purple crocuses, to be part of a flower patch opposite my old primary school. later that day, i introduce myself, and offer my help.
my sister is in love. he, she tells me, is sparry light through stained glass, and sweeter than all the moroccan almonds, it must have been hundreds, pressed into the bottle of essence currently perfuming our mother’s kitchen. the smell is somewhat sickly, which means he’s really quite something.
“i remember seeing sacks of them, you know, powdered and whole, years ago. they were being sold from wooden stalls by skinny-legged sandal-wearing ten year old boys, their homes were hidden away villages, deep in the heart of the atlas mountains. brilliant green valleys filled with blossoming trees, surrounded by the sahara.”.
similarly, she continues to tell me, he, with his corrugated emerald eyes, is at least 50 percent more perfect than all the pale pink patterns, toothpick hearts in dyed icing sugar, that i’ve been decorating the bakewell tart i’ve made, for her, for him, with. i laugh, because more than anything, i love love, and am ever so happy for her. i let her pour me a little more wine.
“did you know, the oldest love poem in the world is over 4000 years old? the song of shu-sin and inanna, goddess and daughter of divine rain/dangerous storms. or, something like that. it’s true that love outlives us. at the weekend, shall we visit a windmill? i don’t know why i want to visit a windmill, but let’s go. we ought to make sure it’s surrounded by long grass and rolling fields, the sort that turn yellow in the summer, something like those ones we visited when we were children. do you remember how much we grumbled?”.
(it’s my birthday next week. 19/02/91. 19/02/19 – pretty neat)