Clouds are white and white and white, alive and fluffy against the far-off blue sky. The sun gentle and warm against my skin. It peeks behind my shades and naughitly tickles my sleepy, weary eyes. Buzzing of bees accentuates the deep, rich silence of the summer midday forest.
Our kind postman brings me a parcel. I hold it in my hands, trying to forever remember the feeling of dizzy expectation and every unsure move of my trembling hands as I start to open the box. I unfold the blouse and inhale its smell of new fabric, of faraway lands, of its short life, uknown to me. I finger the gauzy fabric, its intricate crochet inset and my mind conjures up pretty images, comforting images of white washed cottages huddled on the shore, of maritime pines and early morning sea – smooth like silk but twice as beautiful.
My dear new blouse! I feel, we’re no longer strangers. You’re quite mine with threads of my dreams woven into your fabric.
Sweet Thursday wishes.