Roses in the court

I hope, the gardeners that were here this morning, did leave the roses as they were and the people living near them can delight more in those wonderfully coloured roses.

We need beauty around us.

I passed near them remembering that they were the favourite rose colour of my mother, tea colour. How come we do remember such details? Why some details remain in our mind when we forget so many others?

She died 50 years ago, springtime.

Her lasts words to me where about me: Your hair! My hair was blown by the wind that blow during our walk with my friend. He came with me, knowing how difficult it is for me, visiting her to her hospital bed once I knew she will not make it.

I remember the painting of that room too, a young Rumanian girl's reproduction by a classical author. I felt then that I was not alone, as he was with me. My friend, lover future husband. I believed in him then.

I do not regret it today, because he did gave me two wonderful children, who have now their children, their lifes.

I am alone but not all alone.

In London, so many wonderful people! And those great roses, too.