Rrapatushja
Nelk@
Re: Pjese nga Ditari qe nuk mbaj...
My grandmother's hands redolent with the sweet aroma of basil. In the morning she would run her hands atop the basil plant caressing it like a child . When i had resigned to the fact that she was the gentlest of creatures she would reach in and snip a branch, the black juice staining the tabs of her fingers in the same way that green walnuts did when she prepared preserves. The fragrance of the basil was so distinctively hers that once when i let go of her hand in the ice cream parlor, and found myself at the mercy of the pushing crowd, i stuck my nose out and went smelling , and surely enough i found her. In the afternoons she would comb my hair, stroking it in the same caressing manner she did the basil plant, my long curls elated to be in her hands would burst forth into a hundred single strands. By early evening my hair was as fragrant as a basil leave. One September a few years back we begged her to visit the states. For the occasion of getting her visa she wore patent leather shoes and braided and coiled her graying hair at the base of the neck. She flirted with the officer in the same way adolescents and old ladies do, with half a smile and reddened cheek tops. When she arrived she had brought with her a basil plant, temporarily planted in a plastic bag, which she watered religiously in the airplane bathroom. The plant did not take so well to New England weather and in the following months only grew by a few centimeters, despite her constant care. We took her to the zoo, the observatory, restaurants, toy stores which she loves and even shopping where she suggested as always that i buy a short skirt. After a few weeks however when we had failed to find her an albanian companion with which to take her afternoon coffee, she lost interest in all outside activities. She would get up in the morning, cook up a delicious meal, and then straight into the garden where she would tend to the basil plant, watering and tearing away rotten leaves. On evening when i stepped out of the shower in my long robe i coiled like a baby in the space next to hers on the couch. I touched my lips to her wrinkled neck and tickled her rounded belly. When i received the usual kiss on the forehead, happy i reached out and grabbed the lotion on the side table. The aroma of wild berries filled the room as i stroked the lotion on my hands and knees. I put a dab on her nose and smiled, and when the lotion had sunk into the skin i asked her if that wasn't the most wonderful smell in the whole world. No she said, tears falling down her cheeks, this is and she reached into the pocket of her apron and took out a basil branch. 10 days later, after a harrowing search for a ticket, she went back home.
My grandmother's hands redolent with the sweet aroma of basil. In the morning she would run her hands atop the basil plant caressing it like a child . When i had resigned to the fact that she was the gentlest of creatures she would reach in and snip a branch, the black juice staining the tabs of her fingers in the same way that green walnuts did when she prepared preserves. The fragrance of the basil was so distinctively hers that once when i let go of her hand in the ice cream parlor, and found myself at the mercy of the pushing crowd, i stuck my nose out and went smelling , and surely enough i found her. In the afternoons she would comb my hair, stroking it in the same caressing manner she did the basil plant, my long curls elated to be in her hands would burst forth into a hundred single strands. By early evening my hair was as fragrant as a basil leave. One September a few years back we begged her to visit the states. For the occasion of getting her visa she wore patent leather shoes and braided and coiled her graying hair at the base of the neck. She flirted with the officer in the same way adolescents and old ladies do, with half a smile and reddened cheek tops. When she arrived she had brought with her a basil plant, temporarily planted in a plastic bag, which she watered religiously in the airplane bathroom. The plant did not take so well to New England weather and in the following months only grew by a few centimeters, despite her constant care. We took her to the zoo, the observatory, restaurants, toy stores which she loves and even shopping where she suggested as always that i buy a short skirt. After a few weeks however when we had failed to find her an albanian companion with which to take her afternoon coffee, she lost interest in all outside activities. She would get up in the morning, cook up a delicious meal, and then straight into the garden where she would tend to the basil plant, watering and tearing away rotten leaves. On evening when i stepped out of the shower in my long robe i coiled like a baby in the space next to hers on the couch. I touched my lips to her wrinkled neck and tickled her rounded belly. When i received the usual kiss on the forehead, happy i reached out and grabbed the lotion on the side table. The aroma of wild berries filled the room as i stroked the lotion on my hands and knees. I put a dab on her nose and smiled, and when the lotion had sunk into the skin i asked her if that wasn't the most wonderful smell in the whole world. No she said, tears falling down her cheeks, this is and she reached into the pocket of her apron and took out a basil branch. 10 days later, after a harrowing search for a ticket, she went back home.
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