There is a woman out there . . . . . . . One of such beauty that I have been neglecting.

And for this I am ashamed.

There are those that need attention . . . . . Who deserve all servitude unto their grace and wisdom . . . .. to blue eyes and never-ending smile.

For her, I praise . . . . for her, I write.

Roses.





Blue Eyes and Roses


"Wow, you're really on me like a parasite today."

"You mean, like a tick or a leach?"

"No --- More like a person who lives in Paris."

It was a little café off the artist's square in Florence, where I heard these words. Not that I paid much attention to tourists or their ilk. But in the dead of winter, I was feeling a little homesick and more than a little ennui'. And for a writer of any sort, that it a very bad thing. So, I turned my attention from the auction catalog and the cooling tea to see what voices could have roused me from my half-dead routine. In retrospect, it would have been better for me if I were to have slept in late or to have walked in front of a bus that morning, than to have heard those words.

But then again, I had been dead for twenty years before I had turned my head that day . . . . Before that beauty completely filled my vision. A woman of ember dark hair, holding flowers to her nose and looking to the square. A child full of vigor and excitement, kneeling in her chair to stair at me near nose to nose. Both with the most amazing blue eyes. Not the blue of lilacs or of water, but the blue of the noonday sky . . . . . just before it lets loose all the tears of heaven's angles. And their faces . . . . . with such beauty, I did not wonder why angles should cry. But then again, I must have been staring myself.

"Look Mom, an Italian."

"Turn around . . . .You know that you are not supposed to stair at people."

No matter where you go, kids are kids and Moms are moms. It was enough to make me grin. And that was just enough to make the sun come out in the pair of smiles that met me in return. "That's OK. It's good to hear a friendly voice every once in a while." I said with my best southern drawl. And with that, the princess's eyes went as large as saucers as her little hinny slapped the seat to stair at her mother. And if possible, her smile grew warmer in the cool café air.

"Small world isn't?" Her eyes gave me the quick once over. And for the fist time in many years, I hated to think of what kind of man she saw sitting before her. "So, you've been living here long?"

Now that was not the type of question that I had been expecting. She was beautiful, smart and observant. It was the type of question that I needed. And for the next hour as they lazily ate breakfast and sipped at their coffees, I somehow wound up spilling my guts. And in turn, listening to her story as well.

I had done rather well under several pseudonyms, in writing mysteries and romances (and a few pieces in between). And she had a degree in history and literature. I was basically a social loner and she was in between marriages. We both loved art and places of romance . . . . . We both lucked into being in the same place at the same time. For me it was taking a ghost-writing gig overseas and forgetting to go home. For her, it was a matter of winning an off-peak vacation package and taking the wrong train. In both our cases, is seem that the Gods play funny games when you're not looking.