Feeling well

My mother was born, 101 years ago, on Boxing day: the 26 December. She did not live more then 53 years and died, more or less from sorrow.

Probably, she had also something else, but it is what I always felt.

When she did live still, she liked to have a flower for her birthday and asked for a Cyclamen. I continued to buy it to her even after she passed away and is with me only in spirit, in my mind and my heart.

Usually, I buy it last minute and often it does not live long time either. "My name is Kertesz, meaning Gardener in Hungarian, but I do not have a gardener's hand" used to say a bit sad seeing the flowers die, year after year.

This year I did buy one a month ago or even more, put it on the window in the kitchen where it can have lots of light and not lots of warmth, how I was told that flower likes, giving it the water it needs but not more.

What a joy to see it day by day still wonderful, still there!

The flower feels well in this apartment, in London, as I do.

I will write about it to my mother, in my diary, as I do every end of year telling her about what the year brought to me, she always wanted to know everything about me, in as much detail I could give her. I continue to tell her, mostly what good happened to me. It always does. Something.

Every year is not always as good, lots happens sometimes, but this year I dared to change country, I come to London from Paris's neighborhood, and I begin to thrive here, just like the flower.