I was strolling down the road, near the park and I found this hydrangea bush.
My heart suddenly flared like a torch.
Because I remember.
Grandma have some at her house, almost the same shade.
We were both pleased with that colour.
Not blue nor white, not quite anything you could have said.
Instead – and there’s a soft irony – my own mom likes and has them a very intense pink.
Every time I look at hers my nose starts to dimple.
I’ve never been a pink girl or a white one.
I have no sweet shade, I have no innocence.
In matter of colours I’m always been lunatic.

Very early in my toddler years and beyond I was all for reds, the fiery ones.
Then I shifted to sunset oranges down to peach.
And gold for the treasures I’ll never hold.
Then lilac for the sake of the others.
Then blood, the red metallic taste of revenge brought by the Baccara roses’ thorns.
Then every shade of green because I sought peace.
After that nothing for a while…my own eyes had no shades, striking blank.
Abruptly I was all for black. I revealed in it. Hid in it.
Gradually it faded to a very dark blue, and it paled through the last years, sewing with streams of silver.

I feel powder blue.
Grandma is almost gone by now, her hydrangeas are blooming anew without any care from her.
I feel I’m closing the circle I started with my birth.
And hope I don’t fall again into black or into white and she will rejoin Grandpa, somewhere sometime…

When you are old and gray and full of sleep

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;


How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true;

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face.


And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead,

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

When you are old ~ W.B.Yeats