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| [SweetPeas and OrangeJuice;xo] |
One thought always leads to another, then each story is told with intriguing detail. I remember once when we were walking home from the supermarket and she said she could smell sweetpeas. They reminded her of her Grandparent's old backgarden, with it's plum and apple trees and secret vegetable patch down the bottom witht the chicken shed.
Her Grandad had grown sweetpeas: purple and pink ones, up a trellis near his greenhouse. Smiling, she added that every so often he would cut her a bunch. She said that garden held many fond memories for her; memories of happily mellow summers, and family gatherings; playing in paddling pools with her cousins; her Granny tending to a wound she aquired on the pampas grass.
This particular story, she said, involved the backdoor step. She said she thought it odd that there was a backdoor step, and couldn't think of any other houses she knew of with a backdoor step..hers didn't even have one at the front.
Anyway, on this particular day (she was unsure of how old she actually was), she ran through the fly-curtained backdoor with a glass of orange juice in one hand (she noted how strange it was that she could remember the juice was orange, and yet couldn't even estimate her age).
And anyway, somehow, she had fallen, and cut her wrist on the broken glass. She couldn't remember the exact spot, or find any scar evidence of the old wound, but she assures me, she knows it really happened. It can't have been as serious as she thought it had been at the time, she said, but her mother had gone to the local shop around the corner, and bought a little roll of gauze bandage. After cleaning her arm and wrapping her cut up in the bandage, her mother got her a relacement orange juice.
Now, she couldn't even actually say how serious her injury had been, but at the time, she actually thought she would die. Perhaps, she laughed, this was the earliest evidence of the 'drama queen' reputation she would adopt later in life.
And all this came from the smell of sweetpeas.
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