My mother’s flower vase stands on my dining table. Burgundy velvet drapes are an elegant backdrop to a yellow chrysanthemum wearing an underskirt of mocha. Orange tiger lilies stand apart from Bells of Ireland, their furry, maroon pistils sway at the slightest footstep.
Son the older and I have just finished watching a black and white, 1953 French comedy. Monsieur Hulot, the main character, is a bumbler whose mishaps create in us an odd tenderness.
Outside, the fall moon is a sliver, leaves skitter down the street, and a light rain patters on the trees.
Three newly planted gardenia bushes close in the only side of the front yard without flowers or foliage.
Sometimes it is our limits which define our purpose.