Garden

In my dream, I was wandering down a pebble-encrusted path that ribboned through the garden. It was night-time, and the thin white moon was curved in a sombre smile, spilling light onto the path so that everything stood out in sharp relief. I could see flowers flourishing on either side of me: tall stalks of purple aster, musk roses blushing crimson and a spilling profusion of alyssum. Ivy hugged the elaborately carved marble statues that line the path at intervals and a cascading fountain shot ribbons of water gracefully into the air. I heard a warbling sound form the neighbouring trees as I passed, and saw small, dark forms darting about in my peripheral vision.

Soon, the ground was sloping gently down, and I found myself heading for a flat lake ringed with yellow-tinged tress. Here, the leaves and twigs whispered beneath my feet and I felt a tingling sensation as the tiny, gilded leaves brushed across my face, their touch light as butterfly wings.

I lowered myself cautiously onto the marshy bank of the lake, where the ground was moist with cloying mud. Gazing into the water, I saw a face under the white slivers of moon that danced on the surface. A face, not my own, but one that was older, with mild features and laugh lines around her gentle eyes. She gazed back at me warmly, a smile blossoming on her lips. I couldn't resist smiling back, and for a moment, I felt that she was with me again. The wind breathed a sigh over the lake, rippling the image. When the water was still again, she was gone, and I was filled with a primitive longing and realization that I had never felt so alone.

I was jarred awake the next morning by the chiming bell at the orphanage where I lived and found myself clutching my mother's photograph of her favourite garden.