How fragile we are

Vulnerable - Oil on canvas by Laura Tedeschi

Fragile, vulnerable we are, if we let go away the child inside us.

Green grass, trees, yellow flowers, blue sky, laughter, my sister's squared shirt, my mother's basket full of mushrooms.
I usually stopped to pick flowers, smiled, imagining them placed in a glass of water, in the evening on the little table in front of where dad usually sat smoking a pipe.
The little table there is no more, was given away during the last move.
When was the last time I picked up a bouquet of wildflowers? I can't remember, maybe I'm afraid that people laugh at me?
I hope it is so, because if it were not like this, if I had no more the desire to gather flowers, then all will be lost.

Me, on summer of 1973 - Asiago