The earth smelled of Summer. Frangpanis whispered to her soft curls from above as she took cover under them. She was waiting for him. Her joy left a tinge of blush on the cheeks. Her dress was that of the tangerine too. His artist’s eye would be delighted to see such brightness and warmth in her. She was waiting for him, eagerly.
She sat down and removed her diary to write him a letter. In it she wanted to pour all her love and blessings. The precious moments they had shared and how they had come so close to each others’ hearts. She wrote without effort or a scribble. Often when she wrote something very close to her heart, she cried without her even realising it. Today it happened again. As she wrote the last line, a teardrop fell on the letter and drowned the red inked word with it. The word was lost but it looked beautiful. The smudge embossed a faint halo around it of the color red and the word. The halo was her love. The purity and the vastness of it that could be merely expressed in words.
Then the most bizarre and the beautiful of ideas came upon her. With a quick glance at the letter, she looked up and as if looking for a treasure, looked around the garden inquisitively. her eyes met with Frangipanis in shades of yellow, white and warm pink. She gathered a couple of them of each color and once again sat under them to rewrite the letter. Only that she was going to rewrite the words with the bits of Frangipanis. She knew he would understand each hidden word behind the flowers.
She held her breath for a long time and subtly released it like the scent of the flowers she was working with. Carefully she studied the words in the letter and then the bunch of flowers as if they were the same thing. Then she plucked out the petals and began dissecting them into smaller pieces. She did this until she had a satisfactory volume of what looked like soft pieces of solid paint. Then she placed a small piece of pale red on the chap stick to only replace it on the first word of the letter. Dearest was that word. She held up the letter to look for the word and was satisfied to see the color imitate the word on the paper. That is how she felt about him, warm and secure, like pale red. She struggled with the second word, the name by which she always called him. It was everything to her. She left it as it was and moved on to the other words in the letter to seal them with the colors of Frangipanis. Each word carefully sealed with its matching colored petal’s bit. At the end, the letter looked like an ode to the gods.
She kept peering over the letter and the more she looked at the colors, the more absorbed she got into the emotion behind the word and its meaning. It was a different world. Just then, she heard her name at a distance. ‘Pippa, am here darling!’
She got up in haste and ran towards the gate of the garden, from where he had called out her name. Holding the letter close to her heart, careful not to destroy its contents she watched him wave at her from a distance, near his bicycle. Just like old times, she thought. He has come to take me on his bicycle. Nothing has changed, I will never grow up for him. She reached for him and hugged him tightly and gave him the letter. He looked at it and smiled. He had understood, she could see that in his eyes. He hugged her tightly and kissed her forehead.
They stood like that for sometime. Both happy to be with each other. Then he was telling her so many things but she couldn’t hear. She just kept smiling and nodding at him. It had been a long time since they were back to their garden meet like this. He had rather had a long spell in the hospital this time, she thought. But she will always be his little princess. Then suddenly she thought of the letter again and the word she had missed pasting a Frangipani on. She smiled, she had no regrets to leave it like that. Not a thousand colors could describe that word. The word was Grandpa.