When we are old and the winter outside will have red knuckles and bangs against our door with ice and snow and blizzards, then we will remember. Look, we will say to our astonished grand-children, who with an already mockingly smile try not to look in a too peculiar way on their smart phones but to listen to our old stories, listen we will say, many years ago, there was a november when the roses did not stop to blossom, even when nearly all the leaves had come down already. A carpet of brown, gold and orange, deep red wine leaves and some dark green ivy covered the streets . But the roses were still there in the warmth of this november, were shining pink and rosa and white. These were the days when the summer did not want to leave at all, when the children wore just t-shirts and shorts running outside with red cheeks, catching for breath. The lake in the sun did not bear a sign of autumn but just glittered in the warming sun and some brave-hearted men and women untied their shoelaces and tipped their toes into the water, smiling and joyful. The apples of this year were crisp and sweet, the pears sun-kissed and the grapes sweeter than ever. And we were waiting, we will say to the children looking at us with doubt in their eyes, staring out of the window, where again snow would fall, we have been waiting for the thirteenth fairy, who would end all this in due course, but she did not come, got lost somewhere and we, we started to hope that till the end of our days, the cherry tree orchards and the old rosa roses would flourish and blossom and we would live as if life would be a long and never-ending summer.