June 5th. Freesias
Smells are filmstrips of my soul. Not movies with special effects, not flat photographs, but tube slides rustling and clicking. In front of me, at the table, there is a vase with freesias — South African lilies and favorites of French kings. Fragile, just a couple of flowers on a long stem. Tender such, a little wind blew not from the warm side, and they droop. Capricious such that I change their water three times a day: they love icy and sweetened. But just once inhaling their scent, you want not only to indulge their desires, you want to sing songs to them, cherish them if only they would bloom. When there are freesias in my house, I can eat nothing, as I am satisfied with the smell like a dessert. But parting with them is not so sad either, as their smell comes to mind when I bite a peach or rub almond oil on my wrists. Do not miss the moment when they are near and do not miss a fleeting memory, like a flying cloud of pollen. I love them like Dumbledore loves his phoenix, Fawkes. With respectful admiration and pleasure.