Pink flowers on a stranger’s terrace make me think of my mother and immediately I think of the day I sold my plants. They were a collection; a way of unconsciously connecting to my mother and I sold them when I moved to Paris.
I think of all the things I’ve sold over the past few years to pack my life up and travel. I’ve saccrificed a part of myself for travel; made a trade believing I could only ever have one or the other.
I’m ready to have pink flowers on my own terrace again. And I’ll continue to travel the world.