Delia decided to have a pink garden. Everything would flower pink. Pink! Pink! Pink! Not that bright candy pink, but the softer powder puff pink.
Her garden was beautiful; like soft panpipes wafting from a distant hill; like a baby’s smile that paled into a... smile; like a transient moonlight glow; like... like... oh! so delicate, and... pink. People would stop to look. Someone once actually stopped their car and took photographs. What a compliment!
The time came, as it always does, for Delia to move on. She was getting old. The garden was becoming too much. She put the house up for sale.
It was early winter. Only the three camellias blossomed pink. The rest lay silent, waiting for the spring.
“We’ll buy,” said the first couple to inspect.
Delia heard them say as they left, “Those pink camellias will have to go. Pink! Imagine anyone planting pink!”