Moist air laden with a seemingly sticky substance clung to the porch and brick of Path’s beach home. Visibility was sparse at dawn. Soon the sun would burn trails from the horizon to the land. This time of a turn, struggle as it may, the sun would begin to lose its battle against the coming cold.
Wrapped in a light shawl, hands around a warm mug of the local stimulant, Path let the sea air and dancing waves gently wake her. She adored these quiet moments. The comm tucked in her desk to muffle its attention, couldn’t breach this mantle of peace. Hair and clothes in disarray with no eyes that criticize. Flocking Peko-Peko’s rode the thermals, breaking free and diving for the teal waters to grasp a bluefish.
A crate of Ringold’s in shades of violet and gold had been delivered and placed on the sand awaiting planting. Such small blossoms, so fragile, Path mused as she considered where to set them to soil. She abandoned the mug and rose. Arms reaching towards the fading moon, she let her head fall back while rotating her shoulders in small circles. Hands grasping nothingness she drew in and released a deep breath. Not yet awake but not in dreams, Path knelt to the task at hand.
Stems, now barren except for a few struggling petals, showed their weakness to the chill of the turns air. Path never enjoyed pulling these flowers from the sandy soil. Path thought, why can’t they just wither and dry so I don’t fell like I am shortening their life? It would be so much easier. Pressing into the soil, Path sought the root. Prying fingers between a web of tendrils, she lifted the fading plant from the dirt. White, still fragrant petals floated in a spiral to her feet. A sharp scream from the feeding Peko-Peko’s seemed to echo the dying blooms.
Path carefully prepared the beds to support new life in the coming days of frigid temperatures. With a touch ever so light, she set each Ringold to the musky soil. Each tiny seedling held its secrets. Would they survive the days ahead? Can they thrive in Path’s care? What colors and scents do these closed buds conceal? Only in time and with nurturing would their secrets be told. Path knew that not all would survive. It is the way of things. Some would die. Others would grow and color the garden. Out of the pallet, a few would thrive in her care, towering above all others and filling the air with a heady perfume. Path would come to know each petal and smile at the flowers fortitude and strength. These are also the blooms that would require pulling at the season’s end yet the memory of such jewels held forever in full bloom.
Waves turned with the tide. The air now tepid as the sun rose higher. Crystals of salt glistened on the bricks of Path’s house and the newly planted flowers turned to capture light. The plants that were pulled Path tossed to the sea, all but a few white petals. These she cradled in cupped palms.
Path set the petals on her desk. Using an antique key carved from Bantha tusk, she unlocked the redwood hope chest. The scent of memories rose. She removed a leather bound book it’s title illegible. Without looking, Path opened the heavy volume. She smoothed the parchment trailing fingertips across handwritten words. The pristine white petals she carefully placed on the open page. Slowly, so as not to disturb their sleep, she closed the book and returned it to it’s resting place among other treasures. Key clicked to lock, Path’s task was done.
Gilded letters on taupe caught her attention.
The well-known Senator of Entertainment, Miss Clara Wren and the Senator of Finances, Mister Web Goldring, will be wed on Saturday, Nov. 6that 6:00 PM EST.
Wrapped in a light shawl, hands around a warm mug of the local stimulant, Path let the sea air and dancing waves gently wake her. She adored these quiet moments. The comm tucked in her desk to muffle its attention, couldn’t breach this mantle of peace. Hair and clothes in disarray with no eyes that criticize. Flocking Peko-Peko’s rode the thermals, breaking free and diving for the teal waters to grasp a bluefish.
A crate of Ringold’s in shades of violet and gold had been delivered and placed on the sand awaiting planting. Such small blossoms, so fragile, Path mused as she considered where to set them to soil. She abandoned the mug and rose. Arms reaching towards the fading moon, she let her head fall back while rotating her shoulders in small circles. Hands grasping nothingness she drew in and released a deep breath. Not yet awake but not in dreams, Path knelt to the task at hand.
Stems, now barren except for a few struggling petals, showed their weakness to the chill of the turns air. Path never enjoyed pulling these flowers from the sandy soil. Path thought, why can’t they just wither and dry so I don’t fell like I am shortening their life? It would be so much easier. Pressing into the soil, Path sought the root. Prying fingers between a web of tendrils, she lifted the fading plant from the dirt. White, still fragrant petals floated in a spiral to her feet. A sharp scream from the feeding Peko-Peko’s seemed to echo the dying blooms.
Path carefully prepared the beds to support new life in the coming days of frigid temperatures. With a touch ever so light, she set each Ringold to the musky soil. Each tiny seedling held its secrets. Would they survive the days ahead? Can they thrive in Path’s care? What colors and scents do these closed buds conceal? Only in time and with nurturing would their secrets be told. Path knew that not all would survive. It is the way of things. Some would die. Others would grow and color the garden. Out of the pallet, a few would thrive in her care, towering above all others and filling the air with a heady perfume. Path would come to know each petal and smile at the flowers fortitude and strength. These are also the blooms that would require pulling at the season’s end yet the memory of such jewels held forever in full bloom.
Waves turned with the tide. The air now tepid as the sun rose higher. Crystals of salt glistened on the bricks of Path’s house and the newly planted flowers turned to capture light. The plants that were pulled Path tossed to the sea, all but a few white petals. These she cradled in cupped palms.
Path set the petals on her desk. Using an antique key carved from Bantha tusk, she unlocked the redwood hope chest. The scent of memories rose. She removed a leather bound book it’s title illegible. Without looking, Path opened the heavy volume. She smoothed the parchment trailing fingertips across handwritten words. The pristine white petals she carefully placed on the open page. Slowly, so as not to disturb their sleep, she closed the book and returned it to it’s resting place among other treasures. Key clicked to lock, Path’s task was done.
Gilded letters on taupe caught her attention.
The well-known Senator of Entertainment, Miss Clara Wren and the Senator of Finances, Mister Web Goldring, will be wed on Saturday, Nov. 6that 6:00 PM EST.
The ceremony will be held by Mayor Sidious Inoxi in the Farpoint City Hall
Ahh…the wedding is today, she remembered. Path started her bath and went to the armoire. A dress the color of the Tatooine sunset hung from the pegs. She sighed. Such a fine gift from the Mayor. She loved the feel of the fabric against bare skin. Beside the gown, her Imperial Uniform looked more than a dull gray. The fabric rough and stiff it’s appearance as imposing as the Empire behind it.
The Colonel requested all officers to dress for the occasion. She longed to slip into the silks. Forget the duties of her commission and awaken the woman within. What to wear? She pondered.
Ahh…the wedding is today, she remembered. Path started her bath and went to the armoire. A dress the color of the Tatooine sunset hung from the pegs. She sighed. Such a fine gift from the Mayor. She loved the feel of the fabric against bare skin. Beside the gown, her Imperial Uniform looked more than a dull gray. The fabric rough and stiff it’s appearance as imposing as the Empire behind it.
The Colonel requested all officers to dress for the occasion. She longed to slip into the silks. Forget the duties of her commission and awaken the woman within. What to wear? She pondered.
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