memories of rich velvet and old brocade
It’s late Spring. The wooden banisters and railings of the porch are entwined with the gnarled wood of the wisteria’s centenarian branches. It embraces two sides of the old farmhouse and frames the views from my bedroom windows in riots of murmuring green and scented, purply lilac.
The old tree has been there since well before Nan was born. She told me once that it was her father who planted the wisteria for her mother. When I grow up, I want a man to plant a beautiful and sweet-smellin...