I remember the day like it was yesterday, though it was over ten years ago. I went up the hill to visit my friend Annie. She told me to come mid morning to help her pick the roses.
Annie is American by birth. Soon after she was born her parents returned to their homeland in Greece. A few years later, Turkey invaded the part of Greece where they lived. Her parents and three sisters barely escaped slaughter. Annie tells the story, of their leaving everything behind, except her mother's sewing machine and the family's icon. They sailed across the sea to another part of Greece. Then years later they moved to France when Annie was a young girl.
The first time I heard "her story" was on the day I went up the hill, to help her pick the roses, to make rose jam. As she recounted the details of her amazing voyage to France, I cut the old roses from the rosebush that her mother had planted years ago. In telling her story her eyes often got that glazed look of a person who reliving the moment in their mind's eye. Her story melted over me like honey, and I am sure the swarm of bees flying around grew confused. That day roses seemed to bloom with each word out of Annie's mouth.
Annie's story took me faraway from what I was doing. Absent-mindedly, I started to clip the tiny rose buds that had barely opened, (instead of the mature roses which were the ones needed for the jam,) and slipped them under my blouse and into my bra. The coolness of the rosebuds tingled against my skin. Clipping a few more, Annie stopped in mid-sentence, pointed her clipper at my blouse, asked me what I was doing with the rosebuds. Her sweet smile told me she was curious.
I told her how I had loved a young man years ago before I met French Husband. I told her of my love for John and how he had died. But before her feelings could carry her towards the sadness I had shared, I clipped a rosebud and said, "Often John would bring me rosebuds, and slip them into my bra. He said, that way I would feel his love for me throughout the day. That the scent of the tiny rosebuds would bloom with the warmth of my skin, that I would breath in their perfumed notes, and at the end of the day, when I took off my clothes, the tiny rosebuds would fall at my feet."
I held the tiny rosebud, Annie saw my eyes glaze over.
Spontaneously, Annie pulled the neckline of blouse down, leaned over and asked me to put some rosebuds in her bra too. At that moment time stood still. An intimacy far deeper than the rose's root intertwined us. We looked at each other: She with her bosom ripe with age, and me with a rosebud in hand. I planted the seed of our friendship deep within her bra, close to her heart. We giggled as only young girls do when feeling something sensual transpire between them.
We stood in her garden and blushed rose.
Note: The rose jam recipe will come when the roses start to bloom profusely in a few weeks time.
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