For the “Cherry Petal Day” project of the Fairy Tale Reserve
There were more and more petals.
They kept falling and falling onto the floor, flying in through the open window of the room and covering the floor with a silk carpet.
Lucy lay in bed and watched another petal float into the room and begin to circle slowly in the light draft. It was as if the little breeze outside first pushed the white circle into the room and then tried to take it back. The petal darted through the air, danced like a ballerina in a tutu, performed intricate pirouettes, made dizzying leaps before its audience. Lucy hugged her favorite toy Hare, from whom she never parted for a second, and settled more comfortably in her pretty little bed. After making another leap just below the ceiling, the petal slowly sank to the floor.
But then the wind quietly blew again, letting a new petal into the room. All this recalled the game of blowing soap bubbles, when you bring a little tube to your lips, blow into it, and large transparent, yet still multicolored, bubbles begin to float out of the opening. And not very large ones. And small ones. And very small ones.
Grandmother used to say that when she was little, devices for blowing soap bubbles like those sold in shops now did not exist, and children made them themselves from empty wooden spools, on which thread had once been wound, and a soap dish in which they dissolved bits of soap — remnants, as Grandmother called them.
Lucy understood very well what a soap dish and soap remnants were, but the word “spool” appeared to her sometimes as a scooter, sometimes as a skateboard, and how one could wind thread on that was completely unclear. And most important: where was one supposed to blow, with cheeks full of air, so that the bubble would turn out large and beautiful?
Lucy’s thoughts were interrupted by a whole flock of petals that had flown into the room and spun right above her head. The girl watched the petal dance with bated breath. How light and delicate the petals were, how beautifully they whirled!
“They are like butterflies,” Lucy thought.
Yes, this little group clearly resembled butterflies and was not at all like the ballerina petals that had danced a moment before, nor like soap bubbles.
The butterflies waved their wings, flew around the chandelier, apparently expecting a little flame; but since it was daytime, and switching on the chandelier was unreasonable and extremely uneconomical, because electricity bills had become absolutely barbaric, about which Grandmother lamented every month, the bulbs did not burn, and the delicate wings fluttered once more, then again, and slowly settled onto the floor beside the ballerina petals. And beside the soap-bubble petals.
Lucy looked down. A snow-white carpet lay on the floor. Only when a sunbeam looked in through the window did the petals begin to shimmer pale pink and become like white-and-pink pastila, about which Grandmother had told her. White-and-pink pastila was sold in the big grocery around the corner, and the saleswoman weighed it, scooping it with a big scoop into cones of brown paper, which is now called “kraft” and then was simply considered “wrapping paper.”
It was time for Lucy to get up, but the morning was so quiet and sleepy that the girl decided to lie a little longer. The Hare fully shared her opinion. As always, in fact.
The wind, seeing that Lucy had closed her eyes again, decided to offer the girl a new amusement.
It began to launch white clouds into the room. The first little cloud was very, very light and consisted of only a dozen petals, while each following one became weightier and larger. The clouds filled all the space beneath the ceiling, and when not a single new cloud could fit there any longer, a petal rain poured down!
Lucy tried to catch the petal drops with her hands, but the petals, like real raindrops, slipped through her fingers and settled on the floor and even on the little bed. It turned out very beautiful!
“Aha,” thought the wind. “You like this game; now let us weave lace!”
And it began to blow quite intricately, now lifting whole armfuls of petals, now releasing only a couple, now driving a single petal into the room. A real lace cloth floated through the air. Grandmother had told her that when she was not yet a grandmother, not a grandmother at all but a little granddaughter, Grandmother’s grandmother told her how lace is woven, and even once showed her funny little things — bobbins — which one must move quickly, like a magician in a circus or even a juggler; and when you move those bobbins very, very quickly, a thin and delicate fabric made of lace patterns is woven. Grandmother also said that such patterns appeared on windows in severe frosts, but Lucy could not really imagine this, because their new panes were always transparent, even in the hardest cold.
The lace cloth woven by the wind from new petals circled around the room and settled on Lucy’s little bed. The next patterns covered the table, chairs, armchair, and windowsill. The lace that had no room on the furniture fell to the floor, which by now could not be seen at all beneath the white petal carpet.
“How beautiful,” thought the wind.
“How beautiful!” whispered Lucy.
“Beautiful,” agreed the Hare.
But just then Grandmother looked into the room.
“What a nightmare!” she exclaimed. “So much cleaning now!”
But after thinking a little and perhaps remembering her childhood and Grandmother’s grandmother telling how to weave lace on bobbins and even allowing her to try it once, Grandmother smiled and also said: “How beautiful!”
“And soon there will be cherries. And you and I will make jam in my grandmother’s copper basin and drink tea with cherry jam all winter.”
