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She used to arrive at the park just as the sun was breaking through the tulips. He was already there, sitting in the same place, with his old notebook.
She said she liked books, but in reality, she was looking for him. He said he was writing about the landscape, but he was only writing about her. It was a dance in which they danced, avoiding the eyes of others, because they knew that love had no permission to flourish.
He gave her beautiful words on every torn-out page. She kept them close to her breast, as if they were love letters from ancient times. He was sixty-three. She, twenty-six. And yet, the two of them knew that they shared something that went beyond the years. Perhaps a madness of fate.
One afternoon, she arrived. In the place where he used to sit, there was a bouquet of yellow tulips and a note: "The years did not reach me, but your visits did. Don't stop coming. I will be where the light bends over the flowers.”
She smiled, dropping a tear. No one understood why, since then she was talking to herself, in that park, while the sun made the petals shine like a discreet applause from beyond.
We are not sure that he existed. Maybe it was just an invention. But for her, that love was real. Like the sun. Like the tulips. Like the time that slips away without asking permission.
All rights reserved. © Copyright 2021-2025 Germán Andrade G.
The original content was written for:
A picture is worth a thousand words by @freewritehouse.
My cordial invitation to @vezo, @cautiva-30, @tibaire.
Images were edited using CANVA.
Caracas, june 12, 2025
It is my responsibility to share with you that, as a Spanish speaker, I have had to resort to the translator Yandex Translate to translate my original Spanish content into English. I also state that I have used the grammar-checking tool Grammarly.
