by Nimrah Bader

Created on: January 10, 2011

She watched the lily pads drift across the pond. They seemed so surreal – the way they floated effortlessly. She liked watching the pads move aimlessly among the pretty water lilies and lotuses. They reminded her of the stronger things in life.

It was her mother who showed her the lily pads first. She remembered being taken up by the hand and guided across the marshy wet area. Mom had told her how those giant leaves would play hosts to animals and birds. To her young mind, their strength was fascinating. Silently supporting pond animals –all and sundry- without collapsing into their watery abysmal home.

“Lily pads”, she had told her mother. “Were like strong willed people that held everything in place. Just like parents… like Pond Parents.”

Her mother had laughed at the thought. But the name “pond parents” stuck.

As days went by, she would watch her “pond parents” lazily float about, carrying their load of pond animals. It was a curious sight she had never gotten over. They weren’t nearly as pretty as the other flowers. In fact, they seemed quite plain.

“Plain Janes” she thought with amusement. She wondered if the other plants ever called them Plain Janes.

She thought of her own mother. Life had been hard ever since her father had died, leaving it to Mom to take care of her family single-handedly. For the first time in her life, the gleam in her eyes had been replaced with quiet fatigue. Her once-soft gentle hands had hardened and her hair was starting to show the first signs of grey. She had sold her prized jewels and most of her evening gowns. She had become plain and yet she was just as beautiful as she always was. The long walks down the meadow. The hugs before bedtime. The fascinating stories she always told. Yes, Mom was still beautiful. As beautiful as beauty can be.

“Lily pads are beautiful too then.” She reasoned with herself. “They keep themselves simple but strong just so they can support the rest of the pond animals.” She decided then and there, that it was their plainness that made them so beautiful.

This was Cecilia Mason aged fifteen, and this was her story.

Cecilia belonged to a family of wine makers originating from early Persia. To them, wine making was an ancient art that transcended time, space and life itself. As she was often told by her father, every sip of wine spoke of history, labor and an unparalleled form of passion. She had

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