I hope someone saved the roses...
There was a garden in my childhood. Out in the desert and not far from the sea. Lime trees grew there. And ber and date palms and sapota. And somewhere far out in the middle of a sandy, rocky stretch, there grew roses. Big, blowsy, pink roses. Their fragrance fit for the houris. It's the roses that stay with me wherever I go.
We would collect them or have them send out to us in the city. We would place the blooms in the refrigerator. For days after, each time we opened the fridge, the fragrance would waft out. It was the kind of scent that would overtake your senses and fill you with pure happiness. Or at least for those fractions of seconds make you forget everything else, good or bad.
I have been trying to recapture that fragrance ever since without much success. We tried growing roses that we thought may have similar scents. We came close but not close enough. This was perhaps a trick of memory...
My perfume shopping expeditions are always aimed at some day finding a potion that has managed to bottle that scent. I'm still searching.
The memories of those roses are so vivid that if I close my eyes, I can see the rose patch. I can see the inside door of the refrigerator. I can even see the dull yellow inside light. I can see the sea breeze scented flat we lived in by the sea in those days. I can see Hassan uncle and his four-wheel drive. I can almost feel the sandy soil where the roses grew. I also have a vivid memory of a star-strewn night sky above it. But I have no idea where that comes from. Did I once visit it at night?
I have no clear memory of what time of year the roses would bloom. I have no clear memory of when those roses first came into our lives. But I have a clear memory of large and abundant petals. Those memories are also somehow entangled with memories of the matriarch of the family that owned the business my dad worked for. An old, elegant woman who gave us gifts of cloth and jewelry- earrings and bangles and bracelets. Her face is no longer clear. But she was from an older, genteel time. All softness and light and leisurely teas and lounging around.
The garden no longer exists. The flat by the sea no longer exists. The old lady is long gone.
I hope someone saved those roses...
There was a garden in my childhood. Out in the desert and not far from the sea. Lime trees grew there. And ber and date palms and sapota. And somewhere far out in the middle of a sandy, rocky stretch, there grew roses. Big, blowsy, pink roses. Their fragrance fit for the houris. It's the roses that stay with me wherever I go.
We would collect them or have them send out to us in the city. We would place the blooms in the refrigerator. For days after, each time we opened the fridge, the fragrance would waft out. It was the kind of scent that would overtake your senses and fill you with pure happiness. Or at least for those fractions of seconds make you forget everything else, good or bad.
I have been trying to recapture that fragrance ever since without much success. We tried growing roses that we thought may have similar scents. We came close but not close enough. This was perhaps a trick of memory...
My perfume shopping expeditions are always aimed at some day finding a potion that has managed to bottle that scent. I'm still searching.
The memories of those roses are so vivid that if I close my eyes, I can see the rose patch. I can see the inside door of the refrigerator. I can even see the dull yellow inside light. I can see the sea breeze scented flat we lived in by the sea in those days. I can see Hassan uncle and his four-wheel drive. I can almost feel the sandy soil where the roses grew. I also have a vivid memory of a star-strewn night sky above it. But I have no idea where that comes from. Did I once visit it at night?
I have no clear memory of what time of year the roses would bloom. I have no clear memory of when those roses first came into our lives. But I have a clear memory of large and abundant petals. Those memories are also somehow entangled with memories of the matriarch of the family that owned the business my dad worked for. An old, elegant woman who gave us gifts of cloth and jewelry- earrings and bangles and bracelets. Her face is no longer clear. But she was from an older, genteel time. All softness and light and leisurely teas and lounging around.
The garden no longer exists. The flat by the sea no longer exists. The old lady is long gone.
I hope someone saved those roses...
You sure saved them - in your memory :)
ReplyDeleteYes! I can see them even as I write this comment. :-)
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