Wild flowers

June 2012 016 edited

I remember the day we planted the seeds. It was hot, for May, and the ground was a little dry from the lack of rain.

Her hands were wrinkled, but still strong, from a lifetime of work. I loved how they caressed the soil as she dug out little troughs for the seeds.

I treasured days with her, she smelled of lemon soap and clean linen. Her hugs were many and that of a bear, despite her age, making me feel safe.

She promised me a patch in her garden after a walk one balmy August afternoon. I’d spotted a field of wild flowers and she saw my face; a spark lit.

Since she passed, some ten years gone, a part of my heart is always dead, until, the wild flowers bloom. Then, on the warm breeze, I smell lemon soap and I feel her there, with me.

Writing, learning and connecting with March prompt-a-day over at write alm; today’s is ‘the stars make no noise’.

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10 thoughts on “Wild flowers

    1. It is fiction but the sentiment is of many people and memories from my childhood…my mum (she is an avid gardener), my Nan (she always had lovely smelling soap) and Aunts…lovely, lovely times. I am glad you like it Elizabeth and that it reminded you of a loved one xx

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