1-2-3-Jump

Three little girls. One dictates a dream. ‘It was all of us in colourful burkas. We were on the roof. One after the other jumped as it rained. And we came down, falling slow, the burkas opening up just like umbrellas.’

The other questions, ‘How did you know it was us?’

‘Our socks’, said the first. ‘Our socks gave us up, or lack there of in my case.’

The third feeling inspired brought her mothers burka the next day. Brilliant mustard it was. They took turns wearing it.

Laughing and playing in circles.

The day never did come when they had to jump. They agreed a burka would never open like an umbrella if it were wet in the rain.

‘Too heavy’ said the first. ‘It would stick to us’ said the second. ‘My mother would get upset if we got it wet’ said the third.

What is a rose?

To some it’s a flower, to some a symbol of love, to some meaningless and none of the above.

For me it’s an identification of my loved ones at a graveyard. It’s my family emblem.
Amongst the array and array of misplaced graves at the graveyard in Wrasta, the white gravestones with a single large crimson rose on the back is an identification of my loved ones before me.

This is where I will be laid to rest for my loved ones to find me. That is my link with a rose.

I always did appreciate sunflowers more. What is a rose to you?