She has an idea, it formulates as we drive past a blossom tree; a blossom tree that's shed pink silk, flurried and piled on the pavement. Hand and hand we walk with a yellow bucket, once a vessel for reusable nappies, a little smellier back then. 'It's bitter,' I say, 'dead parky for April.' The chill in the wind makes it feel like February. I shouldn't have trusted in the one thick jumper, at least she's wearing her coat; good that one of us is warm. Daffodil heads are bowed, moping, their time over, but the tulips are still going strong; straight to attention, they remind me of the Queen's Guard, trooping bright in colour.
We turn the corner, and there they are, hundreds and hundreds of pink petals. A great big thing of pinkness. It looks a centimeter deep this freshly fallen delicate blush. Pink. Pink. Pink. Everywhere. 'Pink is my favourite colour Mummy,' she says, and she runs through the blossom creating snow tracks behind her. To her they are like tiny fairy wings or fairy landing pads, to me they are shaped like teardrops, or oddly, like guitar plectrums, their tips curving like sea shells.
The petals fall and float down and down, settling at the bottom of the bucket. We gather more in our hands, soft and smooth, petals slipping between fingers, stuffing them inside, pressing upon them, pushing away extraneous air; there's at least half a bucket left to fill. When I was five, I would make homemade perfume from blossom, and watch it wilt and stifle in tap water in a cup. She, on the other hand, has other plans for our harvest.
'It's the colour of angel delight,' she beams. Petals are scattered. Over grass. Over pebbles. Over the fuzzy flooring of her garden shed. They catch in tulips, in the nooks where the stem and paddle-shaped leaves meet, they fall amid the russet branches of the sapling, an acer tree, and they collect on the paving stones near the back fence. 'Mummy, do I look beautiful? Do I have pretty skin like petals?' And I have to remind her again - I've found myself repeating it a little too often of late - that her beauty comes from her heart and mind, and most of all, the way she treats her family and friends; it comes from how she blossoms within...
This is the first day of the seasonal linky One Week. Over the next three days (Monday till Wednesday) I'll be posting a photograph(s) and a few words that diarises and distills my experience of spring '14. Take a peep at the details here. You can join in for one, two ... or the full three days. And don't forget to add #oneweek on Twitter, and comment on each others posts...
Badge Code ...
<a href="http://older-mum.blogspot.co.uk/p/one-week.html" title="One Week"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8436/7807711152_5f912c7903_m.jpg" width="225" height="169" alt="one week" /></a>
