Jasmine days
The house was a mess. Her bare feet felt every grain of dirt on the tiled floors, her eyes seemed to hone in on every dust-filled cobweb and she didn’t dare place her hand on the surface of the cabinet for fear of sending dust clouds into the air. Add to that the mess of teenagers, a pile of ironing with more washing to go out, and the kitchen sink piled high with dishes.
She ran the hot water, scraped the meagre scraps in the bin whilst white bubbles grew under the tap. Why did teenage boys need to eat?
The noise of those boys filtered through the house, discussions on computer games, of their levels and abilities, their plans for increasing and selling. If only that enthusiasm, that foresight was applied to their schoolwork. But school was a chore, picking up after themselves was a chore, despite repeated discussions. She sighed, wishing the sounds and the thoughts would go away.
The last dish dripped on the floor as she put it in the rack, another mess to clean up. But the washing called, demanding to be put out in the sunlight.
Opening the laundry door she stood, eyes closed. Heavenly scent of the jasmine hung in the air. The buds had seemingly burst overnight, after a week of constant rain and two days of sunshine. It wasn’t officially spring, not by the artificial calendar, but the plants didn’t run by the human calendar. To them, wetness and warmth signalled the need to bloom.
A gentle buzz welcomed her as she stepped out on the paving, the overfull washing basket sitting forgotten on the floor. Bees flitted from white flower to white flower, their purpose to gather and produce driving them. She stood a while, her back on the warm bricks, her feet welcoming the grit of dirt on the paving. White flowers reflected the sunshine, almost too bright to gaze upon.
She turned and stepped back into the house, stepped over the laundry basket and grabbed the camera. She ignored the fact she was bringing in more dirt on the soles of her feet. She ignored the argument that was now developing upstairs.
The bees and their intense productivity captured her. The brilliance of the flowers entranced her. The camera clicked.
Sitting at her computer, the downloaded images skimming across the screen, she smiled. The argument came downstairs to be adjudicated on. She shrugged and heard both sides and announced her decision, which neither boy was pleased about but so be it. She was mother and they’d live.
She returned to the washing, anticipating the delightful scent these clothes will have as she irons them another day. She left the back door open so that as she vacuumed she would be surprised as the scent reached her every so often. Dust and cobwebs disappeared down the tube or were swiped away with a damp cloth. Teenage mess was dumped in a box and left on their beds.
Somehow, in no time at all, the house became a home, tidy and clean. She sat on the back door step, eyes closed. It was a shame the photos didn’t capture the sounds and scents, but they would serve as a reminder next time.
She ran the hot water, scraped the meagre scraps in the bin whilst white bubbles grew under the tap. Why did teenage boys need to eat?
The noise of those boys filtered through the house, discussions on computer games, of their levels and abilities, their plans for increasing and selling. If only that enthusiasm, that foresight was applied to their schoolwork. But school was a chore, picking up after themselves was a chore, despite repeated discussions. She sighed, wishing the sounds and the thoughts would go away.
The last dish dripped on the floor as she put it in the rack, another mess to clean up. But the washing called, demanding to be put out in the sunlight.
Opening the laundry door she stood, eyes closed. Heavenly scent of the jasmine hung in the air. The buds had seemingly burst overnight, after a week of constant rain and two days of sunshine. It wasn’t officially spring, not by the artificial calendar, but the plants didn’t run by the human calendar. To them, wetness and warmth signalled the need to bloom.
A gentle buzz welcomed her as she stepped out on the paving, the overfull washing basket sitting forgotten on the floor. Bees flitted from white flower to white flower, their purpose to gather and produce driving them. She stood a while, her back on the warm bricks, her feet welcoming the grit of dirt on the paving. White flowers reflected the sunshine, almost too bright to gaze upon.
She turned and stepped back into the house, stepped over the laundry basket and grabbed the camera. She ignored the fact she was bringing in more dirt on the soles of her feet. She ignored the argument that was now developing upstairs.
The bees and their intense productivity captured her. The brilliance of the flowers entranced her. The camera clicked.
Sitting at her computer, the downloaded images skimming across the screen, she smiled. The argument came downstairs to be adjudicated on. She shrugged and heard both sides and announced her decision, which neither boy was pleased about but so be it. She was mother and they’d live.
She returned to the washing, anticipating the delightful scent these clothes will have as she irons them another day. She left the back door open so that as she vacuumed she would be surprised as the scent reached her every so often. Dust and cobwebs disappeared down the tube or were swiped away with a damp cloth. Teenage mess was dumped in a box and left on their beds.
Somehow, in no time at all, the house became a home, tidy and clean. She sat on the back door step, eyes closed. It was a shame the photos didn’t capture the sounds and scents, but they would serve as a reminder next time.