17/52

New York

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Spring blooms in Brooklyn.

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17/52 Bloom

Cagliari

If I was in England, bloom would be magnolia blossom, purple pink pouting lips kissing the tender spring sky or the roses that lined the garden I grew up in, scenting my summers with their confetti petals.

If I was in Beirut, bloom would be the gardenias, named the same in English and Arabic and sold in fragrant strings on the streets, or the roses on our terrace, deep red, pale peach, falling open again and again throughout the year.

But now I am in Cagliari and bloom is this:

the roses in the ‘car park garden’ under our building, urban beauties;

all the pot plants, named and unnamed, on the balcony of nonno and nonna’s house;

and the wild hedge, woven with waving daisies and remembering rosemary, welcoming us back to our house in the hills.

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Wherever I am, bloom reminds me of my grandma, who called me flower face and whose flower fingers planted a garden again and again, bringing blooms wherever she went.