Mrs. Picklenuts was the lady who lived on the corner of the street. She told me the story of an arrogant king who would walk naked down the road with an invisible robe, and of how an Asian tribe would lengthen the neck of their ladies for the sake of beauty. As she hugged me that night, she said I was beautiful even though my neck was short.
She taught me how to make a cup of tea taste just right. A tip of a teaspoon of sugar was what she recommended. “We need to taste the bitterness just enough before you could recognize the sweet. Only when you acknowledge both feelings, you would learn to respect.” She took me gardening every spring and let me gather some wild flowers for her living room. For her, these cast off blossom which no one wanted were still a beauty, nonetheless.
Growing up required too many things to do and friends to catch up with; and putting wild flowers together is no longer on my list. Now there are no more stories being told after last winter when she left, I was not there and I missed her. Today I put together the first bloomed flowers of the spring and wrote a note with no story.
All my gratitudes to MS who tore me since the first day and put me in an incredibly intriguing perpetual journey. I am forever honoured. xRs.
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