A Garden of My Own
Down in the soft dirt my grandmother sat, pushing and kneading the earth as if it were a plush dough. As a bright girl with large syrupy eyes, I too sat planted between the shrubbery and overgrown grass. Face to face with a golden orb sat upon a pedestal, I recalled the tale of a princess who dropped her own golden sphere into the cool pond at the base of her castle. She bartered friendship with a simple frog for her precious orb to be returned safely.
Grandma’s garden was magic. I scooped salamanders from dark puddles and hooded leaves, tramping through the forest of my childhood. I thought perhaps one day the orb would plop into our pond and I could barter with whatever creature swam beneath the murky depths. As far as I knew, I was a little princess, and every bird that sat perched in our blossoming trees called my name alone. Yet, even being a princess did not stop the wind from flushing my pudgy cheeks and matting my long wild hair. My yellow rain boots did little to protect from the dew drops that flew from the tall grass, dampening my jeans and thick sweater as proof of my many adventures.
Light shone through the trees and the tiles of Grandma’s patio seemed to gleam. They hummed tunes of silver and honey. I followed the pathway of patterned tiles, kicking small pebbles and stones, and plucking weeds from their comfortable crevices. Many days of my young life were spent amongst the wildflowers and flooded planter boxes, picking those dandelions and chasing bugs for what seemed to be miles. The clock halted for my childhood quests within the garden. And yet my duties as ruler of the salamanders and undergrowth soon shifted to what seemed to be bigger and better things. Yellow rain boots were substituted for crisp white sneakers, squeaking along endless school hallways, squeaking along the floors of eight hour work days. I was told there was no time to stop and smell the flowers, no time to pause and just be. I visited Grandma’s garden less with time, and now it only exists in the recess of my memories. Sometimes I still drive by, peeping for only an instant through the cracks of the rotting wood, as I’m sure the new owners of my magic garden have left it in disrepair.
Maybe one day I will return to that garden, and I will venture deeper and deeper to uncover that golden orb, likely tangled in a mess of weeds and greenery. Perhaps that orb will sit in my garden one day sparkling in the sunshine. Perhaps another young girl will be the princess to barter with frogs and sing to the wildflowers, if only for a while.
