There are orange blossoms on my mum’s head. The wind caresses her face – the petals fall about her feet like snow – slow and gentle. She stands in the orchard beckoning to bees and hummingbirds. Another breeze blows and she curtsies as if to the quadrille and once more the orange blossoms glide to the floor.
She is pungent – astringent to the garden. In her presence moss does not grow and if it did she would grow orchids for moss.
My grand mother’s hands are old, like cracked porcelain, like a fine China plate handed down for many generations. She uses this plate to place her orange blossoms. She goes from tree to tree every misty morning with mud squishing in her toes. Behind her she sprinkles eucalyptus dust, as she does this she looks to the sky and says hello, looks to my heart and places a fine china platter filled with orange blossoms.
My heart blooms an orange.
- Shala Monroque ©2003
Image: clipping of a Cy Twombly
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