I pick a flower, a small, blue flower with petals like silk and leaves like silver. I smell it, put it in my lapel, feel its sunniness transfer to me. I want this to be a good day.
My life has never been smooth. There are bursts of activity and years of peace, and I never know when one will cede to the other. For ten years I've been becalmed. I'd assumed I was sailing serenely to a final destination, and now this.
It all changes. We change too.
I can smell the air today. I smell it most days, I suppose, without noticing. I feel the wind, slight, a little too cool but not enough to be distracting. My sunglasses remove the worst of the glare, film my view in living sepia, but it always feels so second-hand, the world from behind sunglasses.
Harry told me not to worry. He gave me a card, not one he'd made himself but never mind. Jenny was cool, she doesn't do emotion, not like that anyway. But I looked into their eyes, both of them, and saw, I saw, I saw a blazing, fearful, hopeful light and I knew I'd be okay. With all that love how can you not?
It's a day, like any other. A Thursday in September, in autumn, in time. The minutes run slower, everything's sharper. It's amazing how many thoughts you have in the course of a day, the way they spin in and out of consciousness, the way problems resolve themselves without you being aware of thinking about them, the way plans shape and form and adapt in your head. I know what to do. Whatever happens, I know what to do. And I'm happy about that.
My flower smells sweet, a fresh-day reminder of all that is necessary. Its leaves are pert and fragrant, still smooth with a life they don't realise is gone. Sometimes, I think it would be good to be so straightforward, but my petals are of a different kind. They don't turn to the sun, they speak to the moon. I hope the moon is kind.
I want this to be a good day. I want to be lucky, like love.
words: Tom Conoboy, England
photo: Lys Anzia, Colorado (women news network)