She placed the wildflowers she had just picked in a blue glass vase on a table that overlooked the fields and meadows she loved so dearly. The whistling of the teapot brought her back to the moment as she put loose tea into a tea bulb and allowed it to brew.
She hummed a song she had sung for decades, a tune from her youth when she lived in a commune with a dozen people who sought to live in peace and harmony with nature, escaping the chaos of the rest of the world.
"Sweet memories," she said aloud, reflecting on the many years that had passed, finding herself now in a small cottage in the forest, alone with her thoughts and all that nature provided. She wasn't a recluse; she often ventured into town for supplies and to chat with others who had settled there long ago. They were called "flower children," a fitting name, she thought, as her love for flowers was evident throughout her cottage and in the clothes she wore. Every day, she would place a flower in her hair, its sweet perfume accompanying her throughout the day. Each night, she would set the flowers in a dish with others to dry, filling the air with the fragrance of nature.
On this particular night, as she sat in front of a mirror brushing her long, white hair, she heard the soothing sounds of the forest, a lullaby reminiscent of the songs her mother sang to her under the stars in a valley filled with love.
She cherished her simple life, reveling in being part of God's creations, which provided her with decades of pleasure and freedom from the lost souls and their conformist mentality. Occasionally, people would stare and whisper about the old lady from the valley her long, white hair, her flowered dress, and her joyful singing of her favorite song without a care for what others thought. She felt happiness inside, and her heart was big and kind. One thing she possessed that they did not was an absence of anger towards anyone; there simply was no room for that in her life.
People often asked her if she had ever been in love or if she had ever married. She would respond that she had been in love her entire life—with the trees, the valleys, the meadows filled with wildflowers, and the tranquility of the nights. She found love in every waking hour and promised herself she would seek happiness in every discovery she made.
When asked about marriage, her eyes would well with tears as she remembered a boy who had passed through the commune one summer. He stayed for the season, writing songs and playing his guitar. His voice was like that of an angel, and his poetic words remained with her to this day. One morning, she awoke to find he had left with the sunrise, and for the first time, she felt the pain of losing someone she loved.
If you ever find yourself in that small mountain town, browsing through the little stores that cater to a lost generation, look for her. Listen for the lady with long white hair singing a tune written by the boy who left with the sunrise.
Mike, 2025
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