For nine months we all see everything through the color pink. Perhaps even only pink. We float like little fish in a closed, warm, pink dwelling. Then we are born – fragile, small, bare, pink rosebuds.

​

My first rosebud was born in a strange February – at the maternity hospital doors, pink roses were blooming.

My rosebuds need everything in pink – walls, dresses, bears, dolls, car seats… A little older, and even the hair will be pink. Nails must already be pink. And then will come the rose-colored glasses. And, let it be so, more small, pink rosebuds.

​

And because of the rosebuds, one must swallow toads one after another, scoop up seas, stand firm as a mountain, drive away crows, bring the sun, the moon, and the stars. Because rosebuds are the past, the present, and the future.

​

And you will always find within yourself the will and the strength to live until the new potatoes.