Bertha’s momentpublished: 2009-09-02
It was an exceptionally fine day at the lagoa. Cars raged by. Unforgiving, as they always were. But it didn’t matter. The air felt like a first summer day in Europe, the place she had left when she was five. Lazy and hazy. A flower fell from a tree into her lap. It had done with blooming. It was pink. Its texture had gone slightly limp as it was starting to wither. It was freckled on the inside. Ageing spots, she thought, reminding her that it was her time to fall. Next season would bring new flowers. She considered that moment when the flower lets go of the tree and slowly descends to the ground. Surely the most beautiful time in a life. Weightless. Effortless. Of no significant age. Exactlly where Bertha was now.