This Sunday is Fete des Meres, Mother's Day in France. So with that, I consider my mother. When I was younger and living in Southern California, my mother's number one spot to be found in was her garden. It was her refuge, and it was certainly a place to be proud of. I remember her telling me the names of the new roses she had planted, and describing the specific colors these roses would take on. For the remainder of the time we lived in that house, I had always remembered their names. These days the names have blurred, but the impression of sitting in her garden can be recalled, and I feel at ease whenever there is an occasion to sit amongst roses.
Such impression surfaced while having the opportunity to sit in the garden at la Musee de la Vie Romantique. Though it was an off and on grey day, and some of the clouds looked voluptuously filled with a Spring rain, nothing fell from the sky, with an exception to a poorly-aimed bird. He didn't spoiled the afternoon because Chopin's Nocturnes were playing from the Museum, the tarte citron was delicious, and the roses were in bloom.