Two years ago my grandmother died, before she did she planted a garden full of roses, (32 where one would have done the job, given time) this is that story, Photography and Narrative, a story of loss, dealing with the mythology of memory, which I hope many can relate to... It also had something of a fairy tale about it, Sleeping Beauty, and so the spools...Below are a few of my images and narratives from that story;
They say the human soul weighs a mere 21g. The weight of a life boiled down to something you could hold in the palm of your hand. Something you could measure out or put away in storage jars, in the back of your cupboard between the flour and the cake tins...
That was the year she planted the roses. At least three per meter. Each one so vigorous it could have taken over the cottage wall all by itself. She planted thirty. So closely packed she could have climbed to the sky. Or perhaps she thought they would wrap around the house, that they would close off the windows and doors, choke out the sunlight like a weed and time would last a little longer.
Spring washed into summer with torrents of deep-green rain. It beat on the windows and doors and bounced off the paths like broken glass. The house was mostly empty and so the vines were free to creep along the fence, over the walls and into the very bones of the building and there they waited… 
The swallows came late that summer. They circled for weeks before settling in; they were nervous and fidgety, abaonding their first nest. That should have been a sign. Count the swallows flight, stitch blue thread into your hem and stay close to home...
For weeks the light in the house was golden; a heavy, dark gold and the smell of those roses got everywhere, as if they were in the very walls and under her skin. No amount of lavender and sea salt could shake it just as no amount of drizzle cake could pacify the bees in the garden. All through the following winter the honey for miles would taste of roses and years later women would swear that a honeyed rose would cause dreams of love...
They say the human soul weighs a mere 21g. The weight of a life boiled down to something you could hold in the palm of your hand. Something you could measure out or put away in storage jars, in the back of your cupboard between the flour and the cake tins...
That was the year she planted the roses. At least three per meter. Each one so vigorous it could have taken over the cottage wall all by itself. She planted thirty. So closely packed she could have climbed to the sky. Or perhaps she thought they would wrap around the house, that they would close off the windows and doors, choke out the sunlight like a weed and time would last a little longer.
Spring washed into summer with torrents of deep-green rain. It beat on the windows and doors and bounced off the paths like broken glass. The house was mostly empty and so the vines were free to creep along the fence, over the walls and into the very bones of the building and there they waited… 
The swallows came late that summer. They circled for weeks before settling in; they were nervous and fidgety, abaonding their first nest. That should have been a sign. Count the swallows flight, stitch blue thread into your hem and stay close to home...
For weeks the light in the house was golden; a heavy, dark gold and the smell of those roses got everywhere, as if they were in the very walls and under her skin. No amount of lavender and sea salt could shake it just as no amount of drizzle cake could pacify the bees in the garden. All through the following winter the honey for miles would taste of roses and years later women would swear that a honeyed rose would cause dreams of love...
1 comment:
Absolutely, heart achingly beautiful, your blogs always are.
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