Yet to Bloom

Le creme Brulee

The flowers bloomed on a Tuesday, but by then it was far too late.

I remember it all as though it was aeons ago although it can't have been longer than a week.

You see, La Genevieve florists was never a large business. It was nestled in a corner street next to the bakery and the green grocer. It wasn't like our neighbourhood was wealthy, but rather homely. Long ago I suppose I wouldn't have thought much of such a notion, but now I've realised homeliness was always in the flowers.

A sprig of the youngest blush kissed cherry blossom to celebrate an anniversary. An explosive fusion of crimson poppies, orange zinnias and the deepest shade of royal purple irises to welcome a loved one home. A basket of sun flowers to celebrate a child birth and a bouquet of white orchids to celebrate an engagement. Velvety Dahlia's and peonies, the celebration of colours reflecting every possible stage of life, encapsulating every human emotion making one feel at home with themselves, allowing their senses to lose themselves in the floral beauty.

We call Paris the city that cannot sleep. She is too excited non? Her lights that dazzle like the morning dew drops or the courting of thousands of the brightest fire flies. She does not merely speak. Non! How could she? She sings to one, like an old friend, beckoning, allowing one to fully immerse themselves into her beautiful, sensual music. If not le violin than it is the piano, the opera, the voices of one hundred angels who have fallen onto the pavements outside the old garage to sing along to "Au Clair De La Lune" on the old land line that doubled as a broadcasting device. It was Monday, the 18th of March 1872 that Auntie Collette mustered one of her most ambitious schemes yet, her eyes positively sparkling with the passion of her cause.

"It will work Rola!" She insisted as she paced the caramel wood panelled floor. Her bonnet flapped about in her anguish, fiery determination etched across her face.

I sat on the polished counter top, my legs dangling down below. It was our day off and Tante had just come back from her visit to the bakery.

She set the crusty baguette next to me as I absent mindedly started picking out chunks, chewing them in silence.

I shook my head sceptically. "It is too cold tante. In this climate," I shook my head again, swallowing another piece." it is impossible."

My Aunty took this in with silence.

"But Bella we have not tried. How can we say such a thing when we have always defied the impossible?"

Still I shook my head.

"Tante this is different. Le Delphinium is like the crème Brulee."

I ignored Tante's laugh, my lips curling into a smile. She always knew when I was hungry.

"If she is too undercooked she does not blossom, if overcooked, she'll curdle, wither and die."

At the time, I recall feeling quite proud with my analogy. Yet of regardless how legitimate my reasoning was, it was to always fall on deaf ears.

Tante paced in silence for a moment longer.

Finally, she swooped around, her smile alit with challenge. "You will see bella." She said determinedly, "you will see."