Tonight, bruised violet clouds spreadeagled across a diminishing blue sky. An almost full moon hung heart-achingly above. Friday night.

How different Friday nights become throughout life's changes. Once I would have slipped on high heels, eyeliner,  a pair of vintage earrings and headed out for come what may.

This evening I sit in my apartment taking in the disappearing  day and emerging magical night. And instead of the excitement of "going out" I delight in vases of flowers.

Three vases of flowers: One, blue glass, vintage,  filled with peonies, dappled pink, from Jude. They bloom, honestly, hearts on their sleeves, like her.

One filled with lillies bought by me. Yellow.

The third, crammed with blooms given to me by my son and with roses from a friend's garden. They reminded me of my mother. Roses from a garden. Always Mum had roses and I can smell them still and see them lining the concrete driveway Dad laid in his white singlet, faded shorts and blue cap.  

A vase full of my mother and my son. What a perfect Friday night.