The small bridge with the archway dripping with diminutive pink rosebuds, now displayed in a frame on the wall of my Doctor’s surgery, had been covered in beautiful climbing sheaths of miniature, pink clusters. The overhang drooped over the handrails and stretched up over the wire arch beyond. I closed my eyes and felt the warm sunshine of that morning. The flowers glisten with dew touching the pink petals and the aroma of Monet’s garden filled the crystal, crisp morning air. Water lapped against a little, wooden boat on the side of the pond near the bridge.
In the quietness of that morning, a soft breeze blew across the water and the soothing waves slapped against the rustic timber of the old boat, making a rhythmic, splashing sound. In the shadows of the willow, clusters of water lilies floated in pink and white drifts beneath the small, curved bridge. Bright orange nasturtiums were scattered along the sloping edges of the landscape. I heard that Monet did not like tidy gardens, rather he preferred to blend flowers according to their colours and he left them to grow freely. Little birds flittered about the quieter parts of the garden.
A familiar sting in my eyes warned of impending tears . It is amazing that a painting could bring back such memories. I had tried so hard to ignore and even dispel the memories so I could move on. Books and photos and memorabilia of a time when I had felt vivacious and loving, had been stored away. Banished to a cupboard rarely opened. This had been a time when life and love were complete, a blink of a moment in my life-time.
And, later on, as Jenny remembers more about France -
The summer I was in France with Andrew, we strolled along grass-lined lanes surrounded by the bright-red poppies of Connelles, thirty-three kilometres from Monet’s garden. I snuggled under his arm for warmth as we wandered happily among the stone farm houses of an insignificant French village. I felt light and warm and feminine. Blood-red poppies gently bowed and swayed in the summer breezes as Andrew held my waist and lifted me up to sit on the precipice of the lane’s rocky edge. I was able to look intently into his hazel eyes without standing on tip-toe, and put my arms around his neck, wrapping my legs around his body to pull him close to me, locking him there. He smiled a contented smile and leaned over to pick a wild red poppy for me.
‘Thank you. Poppies will always have a special meaning now. They will always remind me of this place, this moment in time being with you in Connelles.’
Of course, it goes on describing Moulin de Connelles and romance in country France.
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