The elderly lady’s eyes are glassy,
as she walks along the path by the rose garden.
There’s vulnerability in being lost in one’s thoughts,
a privilege for those of us who live in safe places.
As if remembering something, she stops,
pulls back her shoulders, blinks,
parts her lips slightly,
wanders to the edge of the garden bed.
A foot in the soil, she leans on a front leg.
With frail hands, she
delicately pulls a stem towards her,
closes her eyes,
breathes deeply.
She pushes some strands of hair behind her ear,
breathes deeply again.
Suddenly, eyes still closed,
she smiles and her cheeks flush.
Is it the garden’s intoxication?
Or has she just remembered a past lover,
one who perhaps had wooed her once with flowers?
In my story about her, it’s always the latter.