Last weekend we got together again. We were in luck; the sun was smiling with something of the summer’s warmth. There was a little wind playing in the trees; he would sometimes come down from the heights of his game and hide in the still green grass. The roses weren’t fond of his touch, but had no other choice except to welcome autumn – she’s almost never late. The air was clean after the morning rain and the sky had the best cloud umbrella to perfectly filter the light.
She brought wine, a fresh rosé, the sun had told her so, and while handing me the bottle, she looked at me with those incredibly sparkling eyes and said that she remembered the color from the second time we met. I thought it was cute.
Time becomes smoke when I meet with her. Seconds, minutes, hours, accompanied by the clicking sound of her fingers caressing the camera. I get to relax and, bit-by-bit, I learn to understand and love the music she makes with such devotement.