A new day...a new month...a new thought, perhaps.
Just being there, she was a sort of music, perhaps a garden canticle. Half-painted and never moving, she gripped her urn like a victory cup, waiting. Watching the garden forever, for the entirety of her life, the ancient South American staghorns, magnolia, jasmine, sweet olive, the iron gate, and masonry of the place were always safe. But she never went inside the garden itself. I never saw her inside. That is how it was for her, for me.
"Walked for half an hour in the garden. A fine rain was falling, and the landscape was that of autumn. The sky was hung with various shades of gray, and mists hovered about the distant green of a melancholy nature. The leaves were falling on all sides like the last illusions of youth under the tears of irremediable grief. A brood of chattering birds were chasing each other through the shrubberies, and playing games among the branches, like a knot of hiding schoolboys. Every landscape is, as it were, a state of the soul, and whoever penetrates into both is astonished to find how much likeness there is in each detail."
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