I posted a note, under
“not to forget”:
-my beloved is blue violets-
so frail I’m afraid
his airways will crush under
crimson rain, purple carnations
and breathless he’ll die from my hands.
When Nim found the poem ( a note flew out of her notebook ) all he could think was:
“Anaïs , Anaïs “
This sunless season, all his strength draining by its effort to breathe in the wintry dampness as he lies covered by only his memories of childhood. His mother and sisters, plump healthy women, Rubens like beauties will putter in the kitchen while his father will let the wine flow from barrels careless. (He was the priest and wine was never in shortage for even more wine bottles would be received during all year longs’ services he’d have to celebrate – all baptisms and funerals and memorial services).
His dream memories are blind. Ignatul is only remembered for the smell of fresh blood and burning hairs. Saint Nicholas always smelled sweet as oranges and chocolate hidden in his boots and Christmas –so many smells melting into each other that he found hard to peel their remembrances from his cortex … He’d use to rush home from school so he can breathe deeply all the smells of December. He loved to hide in the damp basement among smoked meats and sauerkraut and the wine barrels and jars full of pickled tomatoes and peppers.
But today strong smells made him sick – even her perfume. Not the rose or the lily but the heaviness of sandalwood. Heavy smells weigh on him and make him dizzy and nauseated. Today he has to hide from them withing his freshly scrubbed sheets and their wintry dampness...
PS: because of a mauve post , though the author also notices the beauty of the color in the likes of royal purple or the perfect balance between blue and red (the yin and the yang)
PPS: and I jumped on the Monday Poetry Train ( a little late)