Farmers’ market

A warm wave of air rolls around the street corners, behind my back, over my shoulders, moving my hair and playing with my skirt. People of all ages stroll on the sidewalks happy for whatever reason, maybe just for being alive, like me. Happy just for being alive, here, now, under the sun.

Getting lost among all the tents that I’ve already known their location well, but I don’t get tired of pretending I’m lost. I follow the smell of bee wax candles, oh so sweet! I touch the fruits and vegetables, so perfect that almost look unreal. In my head I’m imagining where they came from,  watching the farmer I can see pride standing behind the table packing his fruits, getting his pay, talking to people. Simple like that. And for that reason I don’t want to be removed from here yet, I want this minute to last half an hour, so I can study every move, every expression, and memorize every color.

Of hundreds of flowers I pick the bouquet that coincidently has the same colors as my skirt. I wasn’t thinking and my mind played a trick on me when I approached the lady at the stand and she asked “Are you ready?” I just smiled, turned around and grabbed the first one and said “This one is waiting for me.” You can’t go wrong when you are in the middle of a watercolor of flowers, they are all perfectly beautiful.

Once a week I can come back, and alone play around colors, shapes and aromas. I’m getting to know these people, one at a time. Trying their products or produces. My kitchen is my burrow where I bring my findings and share with my family. On my table the two things I like most, food and flowers.

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