rowan tree blossom


He’s been visiting the home for just over a month, nearly six weeks if he counted aright, but he still couldn’t find a way to reach her. Always the lost one, the left one, the non-musical, non-academic son. He'd jibbed like one of his awkward race horses and bolted. First to America and then England, now home to New Zealand because his mother was dying and asked to see him.

He's made some inane comment about lack of city amenities in this very rural place and now she's laughing at him.

"Gerri dear, living in the country does not mean I live in a cultural desert. Really my son, what an idea!" His mother raised both her thin voice and her frail hands in mock horror.

Gerri squares his shoulders, stiffens his spine and obediently tries to find a smile for her.

"This is an extremely creative artycrafty area and musical to boot. Keep a straight face, Gerard, I am serious." He keeps the smile in place for her eyes were light with laughter. "I have just lived with a grand drama on the operatic scale for the last week." She shifted her head on the banks of shellpink pillows and he notes that her hair and skin were colourless by comparison.