Would you look at what found its way under my Moroccan Christmas tree this year? Isn't she gorgeous? So showy. So confident. So fully assured of her own good looks. Why, if she were allowed, I think that she would star in her own Broadway musical. With you sitting mesmerized in the audience. While pretending to enjoy the music, you can't stop gazing at her, the mean part of you hoping that she doesn't really look like that every morning when she wakes up. And just as the devil is whispering in your ear, she smooths back a long tendril before looking at you in the audience (How did she know you were thinking that?!) and you realize with full certainty that she is, in fact, that lovely even without a speck of makeup. And charming, too. You can't help but like her. ~Sigh.
And thanks to my parents, she is mine and 139 just like her. Bougainvillea in the most amazing deep rose color. In the Moroccan climate, they thrive. Still at a tender age, they will live on the Marrakech land, climbing their way up the compound walls, their vines covered with flowers. Unquestionably flirts. I am so grateful that my husband is not attracted to the plant species in that way. Otherwise, I'd be in trouble. Deep trouble.
