My Thursday Doors posts this month will be short stories, not photographs, although I won’t say a photo will never be part of them. Thursday Doors is the brain child of Norm Frampton, who puts a little blue frog blog-hop link at the bottom of his Thursday Doors posts. Click on that li’l frog, and be transported to a list filled with Thursday Doors posts. Add your own and/or check out others’.
The Garden Door
by Marian Allen
Flora no longer looked at herself in the dressing table mirror, but did her hair by habit. What had once been thick chestnut curls were now thin white wisps. It seemed only yesterday that she had piled the heavy coils atop her head and carried them like balanced books. Now, all her “tresses” amounted to was a knot the size and weight of an orange. A Mandarin orange.
It was still early March, and damp, and chill, so she tugged her coziest socks over her knobby feet and snugged the elastic hems of her sweat pants around the ankles.
Down the flagstone path, worn thin with years of her passage, brown winter grass on either side. She stopped and regarded it, delighting in the faint tinge of green deep below the sepia tones.
“Not long, now.”
Her destination was the walled rose garden at the end of the path. All the bushes would still be pruned and tied and mulched for winter, drifted with leaves from the oaks outside the walls, possibly with small pockets of snow in always-shaded corners and hollows.
As she approached the door, it eased ajar. She could smell the fragrance before it fully opened.
Bill, her gardener, greeted her with open arms. He led her into the garden and closed the door behind them.
He had raked the leaves and, from the smell of him, fertilized.
Flora didn’t care how redolent he was. They had been rendezvousing in the garden gazebo every day since he had come to work when she was twenty-three, and she had never let a little manure put her off her game.
MY PROMPTS TODAY: rose fertilizer, cozy socks, Lady Chatterly’s Lover
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