Jasmine
Lily of the valley
Musk
Tuberose
Palonera
467 Reviews
Translated · Show original
Palonera
Helpful Review
8
the lady in white
It is white outside.
White, white, even more white.
The hedges and trees, the roofs on houses and cars, the lantern in front of my window, the birdhouse in the garden, and the little greenhouse of our neighbor.
The lawn has disappeared under a thick white carpet, the porch creaks under its white burden, even the garden gnome at the end of the street has dressed in white.
I want to wear white too.
But I am afraid of getting the beautiful white dirty when a car splashes mud on me as it passes by, when I drink my coffee too hastily and spill it.
Cowards like me wear white perfumes in such cases.
I wear "Flor Blanca".
"Flor Blanca" thinks I am crazy for choosing her as my companion in the middle of December.
She says white flowers only feel comfortable in spring and summer, when the sun is shining and it is warm - warmer at least than now.
Maybe she is right, but I find the flowers particularly beautiful now - very pure and a bit herb-fresh, cool and elegant, free from sweetness and not at all matronly.
The blue shadow of the sky shimmers on this white and I imagine the promise of the approaching spring, a hint of the faintest green.
And yet this white is not snow, not ice, not winter white - "Flor Blanca" symbolizes for me white linen, white wild silk, a little transparent, without being too airy, a bit heavier in fall and moving only slightly in the wind.
She is no longer young, the woman who wears these fabrics - graceful and of royal bearing, her light hair tied in a simple bun, her light blue eyes surrounded by a halo of radiance, a light and very personal smile that is meant precisely for the one it concerns.
No pretensions, no masquerade.
Warmth, sensitivity, gentle distance.
She never pushes herself forward, yet she does not retreat, does not hide - impossible to overlook her, impossible not to notice her presence.
I admire her for her calmness, her cheerfulness, her heartfelt education.
And I wish to be like her one day.
White, white, even more white.
The hedges and trees, the roofs on houses and cars, the lantern in front of my window, the birdhouse in the garden, and the little greenhouse of our neighbor.
The lawn has disappeared under a thick white carpet, the porch creaks under its white burden, even the garden gnome at the end of the street has dressed in white.
I want to wear white too.
But I am afraid of getting the beautiful white dirty when a car splashes mud on me as it passes by, when I drink my coffee too hastily and spill it.
Cowards like me wear white perfumes in such cases.
I wear "Flor Blanca".
"Flor Blanca" thinks I am crazy for choosing her as my companion in the middle of December.
She says white flowers only feel comfortable in spring and summer, when the sun is shining and it is warm - warmer at least than now.
Maybe she is right, but I find the flowers particularly beautiful now - very pure and a bit herb-fresh, cool and elegant, free from sweetness and not at all matronly.
The blue shadow of the sky shimmers on this white and I imagine the promise of the approaching spring, a hint of the faintest green.
And yet this white is not snow, not ice, not winter white - "Flor Blanca" symbolizes for me white linen, white wild silk, a little transparent, without being too airy, a bit heavier in fall and moving only slightly in the wind.
She is no longer young, the woman who wears these fabrics - graceful and of royal bearing, her light hair tied in a simple bun, her light blue eyes surrounded by a halo of radiance, a light and very personal smile that is meant precisely for the one it concerns.
No pretensions, no masquerade.
Warmth, sensitivity, gentle distance.
She never pushes herself forward, yet she does not retreat, does not hide - impossible to overlook her, impossible not to notice her presence.
I admire her for her calmness, her cheerfulness, her heartfelt education.
And I wish to be like her one day.
4 Comments
