@brittarnhild
The hill which is folding out in front of the cabin is painted red, pink, lilac and purple these days. Roses and heather. God has been very generous with paints from his paintbox.
A few years ago we planted a couple of wild roses among the cultivated ones. I was dreaming of huge trees with pink roses, and hips in the late summer which I would make into marmelade.
The wild ones never thrived and yesterday we removed them and planted two new ones. One red. One pink.
A teenager summer love.
We met at a camp in the begiining of summer. We lived far away from each other. Train stations were our places for goodbyes, and for new meetings. The first time I had his blue and white sweather around my neck and forgot to give it back. I slept with the sweather as my pillow for weeks, breathing in my love. In the middle of summer he came to visit me. I walked down to the railway station to meet him and I got my first kiss. Later I took the train south to visit him. When I left to go home, his mother filled my arms with roses from their garden. I sat on the train for hours with the roses in my lap, watering them with my tears. Not long afterwards I broke up. Not because of the roses.
I had white roses in my bridal bouquet.
We all have rose tales. Bouquets of them. Armfuls of them.
Do you have one to share?
Terje is not the world champion in giving me flowers,
that is not one of the 1001 reasons I love him,
but I remember the day my book was published, he bought me a huge bouquet of red roses.
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Thank you Julia for your rose tale,
the man who makes roses
