Garden of mind

Years ago, I felt a tight grip on my arm; sweaty silk fingers tried to bury themselves into my body, as if to hide from the horror that was revealing only parts of the house that we used to call home, now painted in sparks of violent red and blinding yellow. The little hand loosened and I heard an aching sound as the ground stormed up a sandy cloud. Without realising, my knees were bleeding from the rocky street and underneath this, there were my uncontrollable tears. How did it come to this?

I still remember that day so vividly, the skies that carried away the soul of my dear childhood home, the sound of wood breaking and falling over, only to put my future in a bonfire of frustration. The sight that still haunts the deepest caves of my mind is of my little sister on the ruins of what could have been our refuge. With grey hair and cheeks, the deepest pair of black eyes looked into mine with such desolation and intensity that made me want to bury myself under all that had been destroyed in the face of uncertainty and helplessness. I still remember it all, to this day, even in spite of all the years that have passed.

All of it became carved into my skin, trailing with the tip of my finger every thread of the story; in my sleep and every time I would close my eyes, this nightmare would project itself in the back of my eyes shut in the hopes of stopping the tears from falling, as if I could stop fires with them. That day I lost all that I knew, and was only left with a reflection of what I had lost - a picture perfect girl, that carried in her spirit both the gentle smile of my mother and the dark of my father’s eyes. "Oh my sister!" I took her hand into mine only to feel the warmth that I needed to stand up, take the breath of the air that filled my lungs with the smoke of memories and we left. Now with someone depending on me I’ve come to the paradoxical realisation of how nothing that I do goes by unforgiven. I started behaving as the parents that we both lost, so that at least one of us could live without the itching sensation of millions of fires burning their skins.

I tried to remember my parents as much as I could, telling her stories about them and every little thing that they used to do, until the ground split in two, freeing the fires of hell; because only through our memory could they still be alive, even if just for a moment. But out of it all, the thing that kept me going was my mother’s voice, at the back of my head saying: “Darling, your mind is like a garden, you can grow flowers or weeds, your thoughts are like seeds. You may not always have light seeds for flowers, but I’ll give you some of mine and we’ll watch together as they grow into something beautiful. Because light seeds will fill the garden of your mind with colour and scent and life. I will be with you when the time comes to get rid of all the weeds, and with time, you’ll be a great Gardner. And you’ll grow yourself a beautiful garden; it will be your place of peace and quiet, not of chaos.”

I continued to live by her words, each and every day tending to the green mazes formed in my mind, leading me back and forward to memories I tried to push away. There are days when I can read in my sister’s eyes the burning question, written in the ashes of her ruined childhood -”How did it happen?”- and each time I’m lost of words. That's when I can feel the entire weight of my body being lifted up by a force and dropped in an emerald ocean. Feeling a tingling sensation of the grass, the fresh air that lifts the stones off my lungs, I am home again -in my mother’s garden. I can see her in the corner of my eyes, red-dotted apron, hair tangled in braids and a smile brighter than the sun that warms her flowers. Her gentle moves, handling to the very last petals remind me of how she used to stroke my hair and call me her most precious flower. I've yet to come upon a more pure and sincere view. My presence almost feels like ruining it, the tumultos beating of my heart and the hard steps that leave traces of bent green hairs seem so complementary to the light creature in front of me, with ivory skin and gold hair, my mom is listening to the song of nature, one that only she could hear… When I try and listen to nature, it’s quiet, except for the trails of screams haunting my being. Other than that, there’s silence. Gripping cold silence where my mother’s laughter is nowhere to be heard. So how did it all become nothing more than a passed reality, translucid memory?

The very garden that gave her life, fulfilling the sense of accomplishment -with each perfume of a new flower, a new victory- has also proved to be her bed of her eternal sleep. I wonder sometimes, if she ever saw it coming; maybe that’s why she’s been attending to it just like she birthed it. But even if this was the truth, how could she have left her daughters alone in this world?! I sometimes blame her for not fighting harder, for leaving me with a final smokey memory of her...For years I could not muster up the courage, swallow the oceans of tears, to see her being finally part of the destiny she prepared herself  -her garden. I hate that garden! I hate her… I didn’t even know what flowers to bring to her grave, she liked them all. How could I even think about committing such a blasphemy -bringing cut flowers to what was used to be a field of them. But now there was nothing left, at least not for me. No matter how many tears I’ll shed, that garden won’t have a soul again, it disappeared with my mother. Without her there, nothing beautiful will ever exist. But that doesn't mean that the garden I started on my own, the scents of wisdom I had spread all over it will ever be in vain. My mother, she was special; pure of heart and beautifully seeing the world, she transcended the maps of her mind in front of our house, for the world to see...only to burn after. 

My garden is my sanctuary and my battlefield, I won’t give in to letting it be my death wish...but I still haven’t forgave the universe for colliding my story in such a brutal way: the story of a loving family shouldn't have met the story of minds drained away on rivers of alcohol, with sparks coming out of with, sometimes even matches of fire. Forgive me mother, for not seeing the purpose of the sacrifice and for hating the butterfly for spreading its wings too wide when visiting your flowers, only to ruin it all. Please come visit me, I’ll be waiting for you by the lavender seeds...