I called him 'impossible' as he drenched me with words that, over time, would pierce my soul. Our heartfelt letters often crossed paths as we wove a fictitious story of a life we wished for but as it turned out, would never have. Bravely, between the lines, we described what could be; I was young and naive and wrote about love, about a future, about flowers.
Tuberose
This morning I saw the incredible blooms already unpacked from last night's shipment. I had been at a wedding and did not see them arrive. I stood in the doorway of my shop, paralyzed, undone by history and longing - for there on the counter was Tuberose. Immediately I was in the past, in his smell as I buried my face into his neck. I remembered the strength of his arms, how he made me laugh, the games we played and how part of me melted by just a casual glance. As the memories assailed my mind, I became lost in what we almost had. I vividly recall the words from one of my letters. It was written from what seems an eternity ago, about a life due to circumstances we never shared, about Tuberose:
The flower itself was petite. Delicate yet potent. In Goa, by their ocean home, bulbs from Mexico were planted under their bedroom window. When the blooms began to open, their fragrance hung heavy in the night. Known for its strong aphrodisiac powers, unmarried girls are warned not to breathe in its perfume after dusk. As I buried my nose into its delicate folds, I realized the warning would go unheeded - it was too late for me.
As you can see from Amanda's images, we received breath-taking flowers this week. Go in and choose something for your kitchen or for your bedside. But please don't take all the Tuberose; they are part of this spiderweb of memories I have of a man who stole part of my heart many, many years ago.
Calla Lilies
Mokara Orchids
Irises
A Summer Arrangement displayed in a vase by Jon Faulkner
Lavender and red garden roses
A Summer Arrangement including variegated greenery, hydrangea, moluccela, dill.
Designer: Amanda Temple
No comments:
Post a Comment