Returning Warmth
Youthful memories surged forth, names and times long forgotten, the gentle touch of hands, the proud azure of eyes, and the braids that had fallen out of order with the passage of time, all rose to the surface, causing me to forget where I was.
My courtyard was filled with trees, deep and tranquil. After a long absence, I returned to my home, and every corner of the house attracted me to linger and enjoy the warmth of a long-awaited return. The garden was filled with strange shrubs, emitting a fragrance I had never experienced before. Before I left, I had planted a small willow tree in the garden's depths, which was originally so frail and insignificant; now it had grown into a large tree, reaching towards the sky and bearing wrinkles of wisdom on its bark, its new leaves constantly trembling.
Finally, my sight was drawn to the cypress trees. When I approached them, their bare, towering, and intricate branches revealed a mysterious depth and an air of hostility, while their trunks were surrounded by the burgeoning spring within. I would visit them daily, because they needed my attention. In the frigid morning, I stood beneath the leafless branches, gazing. One day, a shy green bud emerged from a high branch, followed by more and more green buds. Thus, my return news spread to all the leaves hiding within the large cypress tree. Now, they proudly greet me and have become accustomed to my return.
The birds still stood in the branches, repeating their yesterday's calls, as if any change beneath the leaves had gone unnoticed.
The study was filled with the intense aroma of winter and late winter, and the study most profoundly reflected my departure.
The sealed books emitted a smell of the departed, reaching my nose and the depths of my soul, because it was the smell of lost memories – memories that had been extinguished.
Through the ancient window of the study, I could see the white and blue sky on the summit of the Andes Mountains. Behind me, I felt the fragrance of spring battling against these books' pervasive scent. Clearly, the books were reluctant to shed their state of long neglect. Spring, adorned with new garments and carrying the scent of snowdrops, was entering every room.
During my long absence, the books had become disarranged. This didn't mean the books were scarce, but rather that their positions had been shifted. A serious treatise on bacon lay beside an Italian work by Salgari's 'The Flagship Yucatan.' Nevertheless, they got along very well. However, when I picked up a collection of Byron's poems, the covers fell off like the black wings of a man-of-war. I painstakingly repaired the spines and covers. Before doing so, I took a look at the cold romanticism.
In addition to these, emerging from the huge, coffin-like wooden box were a woman's kindly face, high, wooden breasts, and hands soaked in music and saltwater. I named her 'Mary in Heaven,' because she held the secrets of lost ships. When I found her in a Paris old-goods shop, she was unrecognizable, having been abandoned and lying in a heap of discarded metal and beneath a pile of dirty rags. Now she was placed high up, regaining her lively and brilliant appearance. Every morning, her cheeks were still damp with mysterious dew or the tears of a sailor.
The windows were filled with rose bushes, which I had previously disliked because they were too proud. But as they emerged from the winter in their naked splendor, I began to appreciate them. When they exposed their white breasts amidst the resilient, thorn-covered branches or released their purple-red fragrances, my heart filled with admiration for their noble bearing and their majestic beauty. This was the love they expressed after drawing strength from the black earth, like a commitment creating miracles. Now, the roses stood dignified in every corner, and I deeply admired their solemnity, for they had cast off luxury and vanity and endeavored to radiate their own light.
However, the wind blew from all directions, causing the flowers to sway and tremble slightly and scatter their refreshing fragrance. Youthful memories surged forth, names and times long forgotten, the gentle touch of hands, the proud azure of eyes, and the braids that had fallen out of order with the passage of time, all rose to the surface, causing me to forget where I was.
This was the scent of snowdrops, the first kiss of spring.
