One of my favourite childhood memories is of being woken by a tapping on my bedroom window. My father was about to put the cows into the paddock behind the house, an area that had once been a huge garden. The first crocus was out, and would be trampled as the herd rushed for the fresh, dew-laden grass. Dad lifted me out, pyjama clad, and carried me to where the delicate mauve flower bloomed. He explained that picking it had no sense, as the flower, like the day-lilies further along, had such a brief life. I sensed that in showing me the flower he was imbuing that short life with some meaning.
In the one or two hours of fragile expression the flower had, it gave to me a lifetime of pleasure.
.
No comments:
Post a Comment