The stoplight on the corner had been broken for weeks. Westway Avenue was yellow and green at the same time, while Cherry Lane was forever red. Mabel knew this. Mom and Dad called it “the... [+]
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The shadow of the olive tree, framed in the window, spreads over the parquet floor. The sun flooding the bedroom creates a whole new world. A different universe, shaded in blacks and grays. The leaves of the bush appear all the more delicate and fine. The pot, on the other hand, is transformed into a mass that you would have thought immovable.
A few insects – large ones or they would pass unnoticed – come to fly around the plant. They must be seeking an essence of the south, something more than just the sun. Drawn by the scent of the firm trunk and that of the olives to come, they alight for a moment before setting off once more on a new journey through a landscape of concrete and stone.
Translated by Wendy Cross