I wish my mother’s house had a garden. I so badly miss having access to a garden.
I miss watching the birds and spiders, and observing the graceful arrival of Spring with her cherry blossoms and daffodils.
I miss pointing out the tadpoles in the pond and catching frogs at the bottom of your garden with the kids.
I miss the feeling of dry grass tickling the back of my neck as I’d lie for hours, watching the planes and clouds, scrawling poems on the walls of my skull.
I miss the daily routine of enjoying a warm coffee and cigarette at dawn, standing in my pyjamas, watching the mist rise so effortlessly and disappear into nothingness only to be replaced by the virgin sunlight streaming through the slats in the fence.
I miss the cold dew on my fingertips, the smell of meat on the barbecue, the sound of the cricket bat as it smashes the tennis ball far over the fence.
I miss watching the progress of the fruit on the tomato plants, picking blueberries straight off the bush, collecting the plums and apples off the ground, the team effort of rebuilding the gazebo after it collapsed during last night’s summer storm.
I miss those long nights when I’d settle down on the garden chair with a large glass of sparkling wine and a blanket, and watch the sun setting behind the trees, breathing in the sultry twilight, smiling, lucky, content.
But, like the morning mist, I knew that my smile would eventually disappear too, and so it did in a haze of summer smoke.
And now the only garden I have is the one that I am lost in: the perpetually dark and wild garden of my mind.