"Gladiolus and lemongrass." The old woman replied in answer to my question about what she most remembered about finding her husband dead in his study.
"I 'm sorry?" I paused in my note taking, uncertain she had heard me correctly. For an instant I thought I was witness to her initial stages of senility.
"Gladiolus and lemongrass." She turned and looked at me for the first time in a while, retrieving her stare from out the window beyond which lay her Monet-like gardens. My next thought was that she was referring to something outside, perhaps wanting to change the subject. Perhaps choosing not to return to that particular place and time. I was about to question that when she clarified for me. "That is what I most remember."
"Gladiolus and lemongrass?" What struck me so about this old woman was her childlike voice. Time had taken its unashamed toll on her physically -- she appeared to be little more than paper maché -- but her mind, and her voice with its wind chime laughter had escaped the time
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There were photos of him though. Alone and with her. On the piano, on the mantle, on the table near her iced tea. They had been very much in love.
"Do you play the piano?" I asked her, since the door to the keys was raised, leaving them exposed. Waiting.
"Oh dear lord no! He was the creative one in every way." Again the chiming laugh up the scale and back again. "Well, I could play a pretty mean chopsticks."
We shared a laugh together. It was a stunningly profound moment in its lightness. Inconsequential, and yet I would never find a way to thank her for it.
The afternoon had grown comfortably warm, and with the heat came a rising mix of scents. Powder, lineament, and just a gentle whisper of lilac. An whisper that would swell momentarily if a breeze blew in through the window. She would breathe deeply each time it did, as though it was that very scent that sustained her
The setting takes place in April at a funeral. There was a “gardenia on the smooth brown wood” (Holczer 1). They have been “wandering across the great state of California” (2). The setting moves to Grace's grandma’s house. It was “two stories with attic windows”, “sky-blue paint with white trim”, “ and a wood porch” (19). There were “two chairs covered in yellowed plastic and pine needles” (19). There was a gently sloped driveway. Inside the house there were “piles of Tupperware and glass dishes” (19). Outside there was a shed, garden, trees, and
The Hawaiian sun beats down on my skin, warming and basking my arms in its radiance. I took a deep breath and detected a sweet, flowery perfume wafting out of a small booth which was completely covered in different beaming colored garlands of all sorts. There were yellow ones, and pink ones, and red ones, and just about every color in the rainbow. I rushed over to the stall and selected a pink, white, and yellow garland that smelled so
On the other hand, the garden itself within The Secret Garden can be classified as a cultivated natural therapeutic landscape. What makes the garden truly remarkable as a therapeutic is its role in Mary’s coming of age, considering that prior to Mary’s exposure to the garden she was raised without an appropriate adult role models but nonetheless reached emotional maturity. In addition, the garden is considered a true therapeutic landscape due to its role in healing not only Mary, but also Colin and Archibald
Walker, Alice. (1974). “In Search of Our Mothers’ Gardens.” Ways of Reading. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, pp. 694-701.
The story opens by embracing the reader with a relaxed setting, giving the anticipation for an optimistic story. “…with the fresh warmth of a full summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green (p.445).”
Seaton, Beverly. The Language of Flowers: A History: Victorian Literature and Culture Series. Charlottesville and London: University Press of London, 1995. Print.
Similarly, given the vagueness of the objects that the narrator “cant quite place” within the second stanza, amplifies the trouble that she does not seem to remember exactly what she’s talking about. She begins to describe “a photograph of somebody I never knew, but knew the name of” perhaps a celebrity or distant family member. The end stop lines portray that there is not a lot of depth to the memories on the tray, that they’re truncated. She then moves on to depict her dream to the reader, and I interpret it almost as if the “drooping heads of flowers” is metaphor about life. Life is transient and in the end, will all she remembers about her own life be milk teeth and a contraceptive? The use of numbers in parenthesis could similarly echo life’s cyclical nature such as the 7 being a reminder of the seven days in a week that repeat over and
She cared for people. She cared for Miss Lottie. At this moment all she wanted to do was apologize. She felt guilty. The guiltiest she has ever felt in her entire life. She single-handedly ruined the one thing Miss Lottie had a hope for in this world. Lizabeth grew up and realized it in one moment. She looked back on this moment, and talked about how after this year. Miss Lottie never grew marigolds again. But Lizabeth looks back at this time in her life, and she embodies Miss Lottie. Lizabeth then realizes you must look at the beauty in your life, and not the despair. “For one does not have to be ignorant and poor to find that his life is as barren as the dusty yards of our town. And I too have planted marigolds” (Collier 148). In a different period of time, Lizabeth gives back to Miss Lottie, even after she has passed, with a peace offering. Her marigolds. Her marigolds that Lizabeth grew now symbolize the hope that Miss Lottie had in the world in the future. Her marigolds were Miss Lottie’s. Even after her death, Lizabeth uses marigolds to make the legend of Miss Lottie live
In “The Violets” I entwine the past and present, the reoccurring flower motif of ‘spring violets’ sprout in both memory and reality to reflect the persona’s age and perceptions “I kneel to pick frail melancholy flowers among ashes and loam”. The violets portray the persona as an adult, whose gained knowledge and lacking innocence has created a critical, melancholic view on her world. This is juxtaposed by the persona’s childhood perception; “spring violets in their loamy bed”. In childhood, beauty was simplistic and untainted by knowledge and human experience; blessed by innocence.
...ots her memory, the blossoms her dreams, and the branches her vision. After each unsuccessful marriage, she waits for the springtime pollen to be sprinkled over her life once again. Even after Tea Cake's death, she has a garden of her own to sit and revel in.
The wind whispered outside my flower curtains. My Rosemary garden swayed to the noiseless tune. I sit quietly watching their soft movement, the flowers I worked hard to nurse. The rest of my yard remained parched, with time it had given defeat to the hot Alabama sky.I glared at the cracked dirt, cursing it for giving in to the pressure, praying I won't do the same .I sip the cool lemon ice tea, the cubes of ice brush on my dry lips.
I slowly opened the front door -- the same old creak echoed its way throughout the old house, announcing my arrival just seconds before I called out, "Grandma!" She appeared around the corner with the normal spring in her steps. Her small but round 5'1" frame scurried up to greet me with a big hug and an exclamation of, "Oh, how good to see you." It was her eighty-fifth birthday today, an amazing feat to me, just part of everyday life to her. The familiar mix of Estee Lauder and old lotion wafted in my direction as she pulled away to "admire how much I've grown." I stopped growing eight years ago, but really, it wasn't worth pointing this fact out. The house, too, smelled the same as it's ever smelled, I imagine, even when my father and his brothers grew up here more than forty years ago -- musty smoke and apple pie blended with the aroma of chocolate chip cookies. The former was my grandfather's contribution, whose habit took him away from us nearly five years ago; the latter, of course, comes from the delectable delights from my grandmother's kitchen. Everything was just as it should be.
While she is buying flowers for her party, Mrs. Dalloway has an existential crisis regarding the meaning of life and the inevitability of death. She reflects on the atmosphere of the London streets and her old suitor Peter Walsh as she reads some lines from Shakespeare’s Cymbeline. Mrs. Dalloway’s existential crisis demonstrates situational irony since the concept of life and death is quite deep and complex, yet she seems to live a shallow life consisting of throwing parties and picking which flowers to buy. Although she is contemplating her own mortality, Woolf’s word choice, such as “consoling,” suggests that death is positive and liberating, applying a light tone to a dark situation, adding to the irony. Mrs. Dalloway describes the trees,
Roses are present in the garden, as they are “the only flowers that impress people” (Mansfield 2581). Mrs. Sheridan orders so many lilies that Laura think it must be a mistake, saying “nobody ever ordered so many” (Mansfield 2584). Satterfield says, “the flower imagery throughout the story serves to keep the reader reminded of the delicacy of Laura’s world. The flowers are splendid, beautiful, and-what is not stated- short-lived.” He goes on to say that Laura “can see only the beauty and not the dying of the flower, and she cannot see that, in many ways, she is very much like a flower herself.” The delicate life of the Sheridan’s is one that must come to an end. It is beautiful like the flowers, but also like the flowers, it will eventually die. As Darrohn puts it, “the Sheridans operate under the illusion that their easy life is natural… rather than produced through others’ labor.” This idea too can be illustrated by the flowers in the story. The roses that fill the gardens are the work of the gardeners who have “been up since dawn” (Mansfield 2581). It seems to Laura that “hundreds, yes, literally hundreds [of roses] had come out in a single night… as though visited by archangels” (Mansfield 2581). The reader can see through the flowers that the Sheridans have a rose-colored view of how their lifestyle
I wandered around the path near the lake because it was always peaceful and quiet there in the morning and the trees that hung over the wide walkway only drew me in more. The cool wind blew continuously, and some of the leaves that barely hung on to the branches were pulled along with it. They floated while dropping slowly, and one of the leaves chose my head as a landing spot. I brushed my hair with my hand, not caring if doing so messes up my hair, since the wind already accomplished that job the second I took a step outside my house.