When Rosemary Leaves Turn Silver

This morning we held a snuggle-in, the family and I. At first it was just son the younger, husband, and I. Then we sent husband to fetch son the older. Husband returned to report that our bedroom was distinctly warmer than the rest of the house. The rest of the house being some eighty years older.

And we were cozy, nestled under the duvet. Son the younger sang a nonsensical song of his own invention while son the older warmed my back and husband held my hand. And so we stayed for many minutes, imagining a life without school, without work.

The morning was cool when I dropped son the younger at school. I watched him walk away, already showing a little more ankle under pants only a few months old. The air had warmed by the time I brought home groceries and as I scuffed my way through dried leaves I made a sudden change of plans.

I needed no more than a t shirt to keep me warm as I painted the front yard fence. A breeze brought the rustle of crisp leaves. Even shortly after noon, the shadows fall differently than during summer. The odors too are different. The smell of decay, of retreating sap.

I could not paint the corner of the yard where the rosemary grows until I had taken pictures of it. The dull brown of the wood suits the woody stems, the dark green of this fragrant bush. Viewed through my camera lens, the purple flowers and the long fingers of aromatic herb create a mystical grove.

A bit of bird down catches on a rosemary stem, feathery edges glint in the sun. And for some moments, there was only this: the smell of rosemary, light softening petals into fairy gowns, and wind in the trees.

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