Without M

This is how I spend my days. Photographing flowers from my mother's garden. Tulips that seem lifted straight from a Dutch oil painting, vases of the softly tinted blooms taken home to droop languidly over my dressing table as the week goes on. Lying under the fruit trees, level with the forget-me-nots as the grass prickles my bare arms. In an emerald silk dress at a green themed East London house warming, drinking mojitos packed full of mint leaves and worrying about the night bus home alone. Lounging on the grass on a Sunday afternoon with Anna in the garden of the Camden Arts Centre, an oasis of green calm raised above the Finchley Road, eating delectable little cakes stuffed with almonds and red berries and sipping lurid yellow chamomile tea. Stewing rhubarb with sugar and lemon peel, letting it cool, then spooning it over fridge-cold homemade yoghurt for my breakfast. Visiting the Very Sanderson exhibition with Dad on a muggy London afternoon, loving the vintage wallpaper, bemoaning the lack of postcards featuring the designs in the gift shop afterwards. Watching 'I am love' (Io sono l'amore) on a Wednesday evening, utterly absorbed by the opulent Italian interiors, breathtaking landscapes, stunning cinematography. Immersing myself in 'Captain Corelli's Mandolin' for the first time, devouring the pages and wishing myself away to a sunlight filled Greek island whilst crammed onto rush hour trains or waiting for buses. Composing lengthy emails to M in my lunchbreak, laughing at tales of pickled sea cucumber, raw scallops and coffee from cans when I receive his responses in return. Lighting scented candles before bedtime, drifting around my room in my nightie, writing thoughts on scraps of paper, remembering to floss. Thinking of him often, but managing not to mope.