Magdalene loved flowers and had made a lovely job.
Every morning lifted the shutter of his shop and put the flowers in the street because everyone could smell and appreciate the color.
smell you do not feel it.
was made of flowers, stoned.
nostrils burned, as the white powder that tastes and smells even destroys them to say.
It was made of flowers for his mother not being able to do.
cold and calculating mother whose love for the stems and petals was like the thorn of a rose that is too curved, autoimmune disease, and sticks in his own standing, which comes to life and deny it to him that life in a wound. It was a tear in the stem-mother's personality. How can love something that computer that has a life? A life so short that you have some more, love to be able to concentrate in the few days when the leaves are bright green and the petals.
Madeleine and her siblings were brought up as if they were flowers.
water as required.
Love as required.
But it was enough for the flowers and not for children. But Mother calculator no longer had. This is
.
settle.
He did not say but it never got communicated to every gesture and every movement denied to them and handed over to a flower even more.
"Maddalena you call it that because all over the world Mary Magdalene has always flowers, in the most magnificent cathedral and ruins of nell'altarino periphery. I've given this name in the hope that you never lack the flowers. "
And it was the sweetest thing that had ever said. The only, as well.
And if you miss the flowers was made Magdalene, Mother calculator should not be disobeyed, or love anything and can not live without love. Packaged wreaths for the dead, red roses for lovers, and bouquets for the brides . A leaf pruned and a bit of gloss on the petals as the caresses of his mother, who believed in a code shared a very private ritual of love and dedication.
He bought red roses for lovers.
And many have had, it was said Maddalena, and love them all, because the flowers were in love and its language could not be anything else would have died of non-love.
He used to buy six and eradicated from the deck and leaves them on the counter.
"For you", she said, after having paid. And it was as an affront to Maddalena love having a little 'more than pink, more than others, most of the sunflowers and gardenias, which were all for his mother the flowers and the pink no, it was for her. The cure was as there must take care of themselves, not to let go, to say every day, "I also love you."
And he loved her, because he spoke his language. One taught by a calculator Mother, so inaccessible that she had struggled to learn grammar and how did he know so much Magdalene you explain.
And he had made a big mistake to think that the evaluation would not depend on the pink. What if tomorrow there was more cash in the jar next to the whiskers was the same, so there are many others of roses in the shop, and that, because they can do without it?
But it kept petals dried and blackened in a box which was like a tomb on which he could cry the pain away or destroy the rage.
"A petal dry and cloudy black-and-her mother would say 'pointless and should be discarded."
"It will be ashes," she thought, but not him saying that one day would bring that on the grave, to merge with her, that there was no other way to be part of it, and the care of her flowers just wanted to send her a pat and a hug, but needed to melt the ash, only the ashes of the petals.
The ashes of the ashes of Mother Him. The ashes of two denied love in a language too complex if you do not kill you makes you crazy.
And this is not love, it's just ashes of dried petals and blacks. Petals cloudy.
Cloudy Love and nothing else.
Silvia.
Silvia.
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