Holiday
She never wanted to be blue-blooded. All that porcelain aristocratic pallor with a moistened smoothness was nothing compared to what she possessed..
White dryness with cracks that flew in all directions from a light "pop", no matter how much cream you rub, it's useless. Therefore, bathing in the sun was vital. And crinoline dresses didn't really suit a tanned body.. But how much she wanted to try, you can't even imagine.
Or these hats with a transparent mesh veil, the shadows of which add mystery to the face. And where will she be able to walk such a hat? In a store where fresh vegetables are just the name of the department written on a sign hanging from the ceiling.
You might as well come to a presentation of new IT technologies with a push-button phone in your pocket and clap your eyes uncomprehendingly when they tell you, well, swipe the page by swiping your finger up the screen..
The wildness of the incompatibility of epochs..
She has never been a little princess from fairy tales, nor a snow maiden, nor a cinderella (and the love of pumpkin came to her only with the burden of years lived). But one day, a fairy godmother happened in her life, who gave her, a little six-year-old girl, a real fairy tale.
That day, she was Malvina in the kindergarten holiday.
The dress was sewn in one evening from white tulle for curtains (almost like Scarlet O'Hara from Gone with the Wind).
This was rinsed in blue to give a bluish hue and starched so that the fluffy skirts looked like blooming bells.
The color really turned out to be some kind of dirty gray-blue (you'll understand if you've ever washed white socks or a T-shirt at the same time as blue jeans), but it didn't matter. The hem of the skirts was decorated with a silver rain, which was manually threaded through the cores of small flowers that were embroidered on the fabric. Shoes decorated with Christmas tinted. And the little girl was very happy (even if she was not allowed to paint her hair in blue color).
She doesn't remember the holiday itself, but she remembers all these preparations.
What an amazing thing these memory labyrinths are.
A decades-long memory that has been deeply hidden all this time, without the need to blow away the accumulated dust.
She regain consciousness watching the wind whirl the petals of a white cherry tree like snowflakes. Her head was still wrapped in a faint echo of pain.
She decided to go try on the only veil she could afford today.
A veil made of the shadow of maple, chestnut or lilac leaves, which changed the ornament of the drawing on her face from thoughtful to no less mysterious, with each new breath of the spring May wind.
