Granny Rosie's Garden

The colours were all gone but the smells were still the same, even after all of these years. I hadn’t visited Granny Rosie and Grandpa Pym since I was 10, and yet I remembered everything in the garden. I stood on the back steps, taking it all in and picturing it in my mind. Granny Rosie loved her garden. Always out in the sunshine. A sunhat on her head and a trowel in her gloved hand, that's how I remember her. Grandpa Pym much preferred to be inside, reading the newspaper or watching the horse racing. As a child, I loved staying at their house and helping out in the garden. A summer spent at Granny and Grandpa’s was a summer well spent. 

There were 3 steps leading to the garden from the backdoor. I used the handrail to carefully guide myself down. I could hear the birds tweeting from here. Granny Rosie loved her birds. She kept her feeders full for the wild ones and her stone birdbath clean with fresh water. Her aviary full of canaries was the fanciest and largest I had ever seen. Grandpa had built it for her as a birthday present and they filled it with colourful, chirpy little birds. Granny always warned us never to poke our fingers through the bars for fear of being pecked. I felt tempted to try it, just to confirm the birds were still there. A sharp nip on my fingertip would be a welcome reminder. However, the birds were at the other end of the garden, so they would have to wait.

The grass had been freshly cut. The smell was my favourite, reminding me of summers passed spent playing with my cousins. Grandpa's only contribution to the gardening was to cut the grass for Granny. She would rake up the cuttings and we would make a mess playing amongst it. The smell of her flowers was stronger, I could still picture them. Granny knew her flowers well and could name them all. I only recognised roses because of their sharp thorns. I did remember the colours: red ones, yellow ones, white ones and pink, every colour imaginable, lots of greenery too. Granny rarely picked the flowers from her garden, she preferred to see them flourish outside altogether in the soil. I felt my way over to the flower beds, carefully touching the soft, delicate petals. Touch is very important to me. It helps me to visualise. My hands are my eyes. I could see the flowers as I remembered them, colourful and beautiful. 

There was a tree directly in the centre, an oak I think. I was careful not to bump into it, tracing the bark with my fingers. Rough to the touch and jagged from where names had been carved into the surface. I traced the names but the lettering was old and crudely done with a knife. I couldn’t make it out. This tree has been here longer than my grandparents and hopefully would remain for longer still. I imagined the leaves were green this time of year, with birds nesting amongst the branches. I could hear them chirping amongst themselves, hear the breeze rustle through the leaves. Grandpa suspended a tire swing from it when we were younger. I made my way around the tree, searching for it. The feel of rubber and rope against my hand told me it was still there. I had an urge to sit on it but was too afraid it might break. Grandpa Pym wasn’t here anymore to put it back up again.

The garden had changed slightly since I was last here. Granny had a water feature installed. I could hear the water, the sound alone guided me to it. I plunged my hand into it without hesitation. The water was cool, I felt lily pads floating on the surface and pebbles down at the bottom. If there were any fish, I could not tell. Perhaps there was and they were avoiding the movement of my hand. I imagined colourful ones, of different shapes and sizes. The structure of the pond felt strange to me, uneven and smooth. The water flowed easily, collecting in a pool. I tried to picture what it might look like, but could not tell for sure. If Granny had it in her garden, no doubt it must look effective. I could picture her sitting by the water, totally relaxed and listening. Her garden was full of noises, each one complimenting the other. Beautiful and peaceful.

It’s been 15 years since I was last in this garden and 8 years since I completely lost my sight, but I knew everything was mostly still the same as it was then. The sounds were the same and the smells. The only thing missing was granny Rosie’s perfume wafting through the air, the sound of her voice as she hummed to herself and the birds. The occasional visit from grandpa Pym to see what we were up to and cut the grass or to busy himself in his shed. Grandpa passed before she did, so the role of grass-cutter fell to her for the past few years. Now that she is gone there is no one to tend to the garden. The neighbours feed the birds left behind and water the flowers while they remain in bloom. The grass is cut fortnightly to prevent it from overgrowing into a jungle. New owners will hopefully take over soon and care for the garden like granny Rosie did. I imagine her spirit lingering amongst the flowers, still raking up the grass that grandpa has cut and singing with the birds that she loved so much. 

I felt happiness here like I was a child again spending the long hot summer with my cousins. Seeing all the vibrant colours in the bright sunlight. There were a lot of memories in this garden. My only regret was that I hadn’t made anymore, and although I couldn’t see it properly anymore, granny Rosie’s garden still looked the same in my mind.