Concrete Garden

The grass had turned to concrete. The new people paved over the front garden. They needed a larger driveway and more space for their four-wheel drives. The rose bush was stolen right before the movers arrived. By us, I should add. Mum dug it up in the dead of night. We worried they would notice and complain to the real estate agents, but they didn't. I suppose it was one less plant for them to dig up themselves. We did them a favour, really.

We should have taken them all. Poor things. I hoped they weren't still there, suffocating under concrete slabs.

I shuddered to think what they might have done to the back.

***

The garden backs onto the railroad. When the ground rumbles, I ask you to swing me onto your shoulders. You pick me up. Airborne for a second, and then I’m a giant - tall and safe above your head. Taller, even, than the greenhouse. I can see over the trees at the back. The rumble is louder now, and I can see the sleek passing white of a train roof. Carriages full of people on their way to Somewhere Else.

I wave and wave and wave and wonder what kind of adventures they're going on.

The train passes, and you set me down. Granny calls us in.

***

I did another drive-by of my grandparents’ old place. The stupidly big driveway was empty, so I lingered. More than I should, probably. Neighbours might have thought I was casing the joint. They'd have been right, but they wouldn't say anything. Most of them would have remembered me trick-or-treating around here, even if I was a decade and a half too old for that now. They don’t want that decade and a half staring them in the face.

Still, I needed to be quick.

I slipped out of the car and over the garden wall. I already knew where the best hand and footholds were. My hands and feet had grown since the last time I'd done it, but the muscle memory pulled me through all the same.

The damn concrete taunted my landing. My knees were older, and I had been expecting grass. The house stayed dark. Definitely empty.

I couldn't resist peeking in the window.

***

You have an armchair each, and there is a couch for the rest of us. Granddad's glasses balance on the arm. Although he talks about how much he wants to sit, he never has time. There are things to fix up, skirting boards to paint, and plants to water.

There is always music from the radio in the corner. This can't be true. You must turn it off at some point but as far as I know there is always something playing. You dance with each other when you think we're not looking.

***

Could the house remember? Did it hate that it was silent? Or was it glad for some peace and quiet after all of these years?

I pressed my nose to the old living room window. It is still a living room window, but someone else was doing the living now.

There were still two armchairs. Leather. A TV took up most of one wall. They do not have the radio in the corner.

I forced myself to move around the side of the house. The dining room window was open.

***

We outgrow the table more every Christmas. Things that were never built to be chairs are brought out to be sat on and you know what? It works just fine.

I think I prefer it when it's just us, though. The table is big enough for lunch for three and for drawing.

You taught me to put milk in my tomato soup when it was too cold.

***

You also taught me not to trespass but I couldn't resist.

They hadn't gotten around to pouring concrete over the back garden yet. The grass was growing like crazy. It's a relief, although the greenhouse is gone so it still doesn't feel right. Where it used to be there was a fresh grave of churned earth.

The ground rumbled. There was nobody left to ask for a lift. I stood still on moving ground. I still wasn't tall enough to see over the treeline on my own.

A new train passed. A new me heard it.

The sound faded. The garden still remembered me, but it was fading like the light.

It was time to go.

The bricks might remember our laughter. The rafters might still echo with arguments that meant nothing in the grand scheme of things.

This is the garden where I took my first steps.

But also it isn't.

***

When it's time to go home, I am bundled into a car. I don't want to and the logic that I can't come back if I don't leave doesn't sit well with me. Something about it feels untrue but I'm too tired to argue.

The car is warm and I can still see you both from the window. You stand at the garden gate as we drive away. I wave and wave until you're out of sight.

***

I didn't tell anyone I went back. Not because I thought the rest of the family would turn me in for trespassing, but because I knew they'd ask why I did it and I didn't have an answer.

Part of me wanted to check it was still there, even with all of the changes.

Part of me wanted to stand in two pockets of time at once.

Part of me was looking for ghosts I don't believe in. But on the off chance they were real, if there was even a tiny piece of them left, I didn't want them to be alone in a house that wasn't theirs anymore.

I took the train home. The one that went past their old back garden.

Resting my head against the window rattled my teeth. I followed the blue dot of progress on my phone until we were behind the right street. The trees were tall, and the tops of houses were only just visible through the gaps.

I am leaving. On my way to Somewhere Else, but if I squint really hard, I can see it. Somewhere, beyond the tall trees, you are still there, and I am on your shoulders. Waving off every version of me there will ever be from the first garden I grew roots in.