Summer Rose

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A summer evening

Submitted: July 16, 2013

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Submitted: July 16, 2013

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I have always loved the summer.  The evenings that stretch well into the nights and the constant warmth, it seems to carry an overwhelming sense of happiness through the branches of the perfectly still trees.  Summer hangs in the air.  The birds are even overwhelmed by the heat; they sing to welcome the sun but by the end of the day they are too tired to send us to sleep.  There is a perfume that comes with the summer; the scent is floral and delicate with the occasional intence essence of barbeque, even when you cannot see one it is always in the air.  Summer brings out the best in humanity, people are no longer afraid to let their children play together, families are allowed to mix on the beach, some even feel able to say hello othes.  In some respects it reflects the winter.  Extreams of weather seem to bring out the best in people. 

 

I noticed the flower growing throught the window of the stuffy office.  Offices aren't much fun at the best of times but today it was almost unbearable.  It felt like there was someone constantly wrapped around you and breathing down your neck, it was smuthering, tiring and was reducing productivity to an all time low.  There were several ornate windows in our office, the stained glass provided interesting light and was supposed to inspire work; it was a shame none of these windown opened.  It made it seem more like a prison, you could not escape the heat.  The whole office was cooled by one open door, on a day when the air seemed to have disappeared leaving a heavy blanket in its place.  This flower sturred me from one of my many day dreams.  Whilst I was sweltering in the heat this flower was waving in one of the rare wafts of wind.  It seemed to encapsulate all that I loved about summer.  It was beautiful.  The flower was the most delicate colour of yellow but bold enough to make it stand out from the honeysuckle.  It seemed to dance on the breese, just enough to make it noticable, it made me wish I could dance on the breese like the flower.  It moved in time with my heart beat.  It was in time with the rest of nature much mroe beautiful than the blood I could see pulsing throught my protruding veins. I felt like I could smell the scent from the flower throught the closed window, if I took a deep breath I could fill my lungs with the heavenly scent.

 

I must have spent far too long looking at this flower, perhaps I had been mesmerised by its gentle movement but time hadn't seemed relavant until I noticed it was past 5 o'clock and I could finally escape the office that had turned into a prison.  I peeled myself off my office chair.  I had the print of the fabric on my legs, small crosses that represented the tired office furniture that all employees seem to tolerate.  I fetched my sun glasses from my bag and sucrried around for my keys desperate to leave the office and to join my flower outside.  I had so many keyrings so I didn't encounter the problem of lost keys, this was a plan that regularly failed.  

 

Stepping out into the fresh air wasn't as refreshing as I had expected.  It seemed the thick blanket had extended to beyond the walls of the office.  The breese the flower had found to dance on was abscent at the time I had left the office.  The air was still.  Stagnant like a frozen pond in winter, occasionaly the light may trick you into thinking something is alive under the stillness.  The humidity was intense and sticky but yet I would not have chosen to have it any other way.  The sun was lower in the sky but I could still feel the warmpth and glow on my face.  The sun felt like it was kissing my skin, warming my when I needed looking after with the tender touch of care and being non-judgemental.  If the sun could touch my skin in the same way as it could touch the perfect rose then maybe it could make me feel beautiful again.  The rose and I were both fargile and needed reassurance but inside I knew this would be the start of something beautiful.


© Copyright 2019 Henri Etta. All rights reserved.

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