The Secret Garden

AVENTINE HILL

The path looks like something from The Secret Garden. At the end of the steep, slippery cobblestones lies a locked gate. Tantalizing, like the hallucinatory mirage in the middle of the Sahara; but no, this is no mirage. It is tangible. Around the corner, we enter.

This is not The Secret Garden; no, it is our secret garden. My mouth waters in anticipation for the unbloomed oranges, but there is no trace of fruit. Just like the mirage garden, the promise of the oranges lingers just out of reach. The hidden fruit of seasons past and seasons to come mocks us disparagingly.

Junko told me of Tuscany, the land of the twig trees with the fluffy tops. Our garden is full of them! As if the foliage is not enough, there are huge potted mini-trees, bursting with air, our substance of life. At the end of the pathway, marble lines the seating area. I sit atop the world, looking out. To my right, marble steps meet my eye. To my left, a sharp drop leads to oblivion.

The marble is alive; I can feel her pain through every crack, every tear in her weary body. It is as if centuries upon centuries of insects spent their lives ripping at the marble, chipping away at her perfection. But perfection be damned! She still stands, her character ever more alive, and she is more beautiful than ever. It will take a much more massive insect to do her true damage; for now, the smaller ones scurry back in shame, back to the leaves they used to enjoy chewing.