Is Life Ever Actually Perfect?

Chapter One- May 23rd

The gate squeaked at me, needing to be oiled. I ignored it as usual and let it swing closed behind me. I walked to the end of the broken path where I stopped. I sighed before carrying on. This was my mother's garden. She died when I was seven, leaving me alone with my father. I'm 18 now and have been coming to this garden on the day she died for eleven years. Today is that day, the 23rd of May. My least favourite day of the year. This garden used to be beautiful but since she died its changed, become a dark, depressing place, the opposite of what it used to be. The dishevelled, un-manicured lawn is more moss than grass and is overshadowed by the huge weeping willow flowing down onto the dank and squishy ground. The willow used to be all shades of green from shamrock to juniper. Over the years it has gone from being the impressive tree it used to be to more of a dead trunk with a few leaves.

If I close my eyes I can remember what the garden used to look like, even after so many years. I'll never forget it. It was my little paradise garden. The weeping willow was so beautiful, towering over me; its hanging leaves like a protective bubble, making me feel so calm and safe. On either side of the willow was a circle of flower beds. Each flower bed full of colour, no dark or grim flowers to be seen. Mother hated the colour black, she always said it reminded her of death. Nothing in this garden was black, or even grey. She didn't allow it. Not even the paths were grey; instead they were a light oak colour.

There used to be two apple trees on either side of the gate, the apples as red as my blood, shining in the bright light of the sun. I used to love going to pick them with mother, I remember taking a sneaky bite of one every time, hoping she wouldn't notice. God I miss her, I miss the garden the way it used to be. Now everything is dead, the apples stopped growing years ago, the trees now old and dead. All that's left of the old garden are the memories I have. Every time I come here I imagine the beautiful garden it used to be. I try to ignore what it's like now. I walk around it, imagining the flowers, the many colours there were. I can hear the birds chirping and see the butterflies fluttering their fragile wings past me. Then I always come back into reality, back to the dark, depressing place it has become.

I take one last look at the garden before slowly turning and walking back the way I came. I wave my hands over the dead flower beds as I walk past them. I let my arms drop as I reach the gate. I stop and look over my shoulder for a last look before I stay away for another year. I wipe away the tears that are threatening to escape my eyes. I look back to the gate and place my hand on it. I take a deep breath and slowly pull it open. Once through I close it carefully and wipe the rust off of my hands before carrying on walking.

As I walk, the branches of the trees shelter me, their shadows casting over the ground all around me. My pace slows as I start to remember. I remember my mother, and all of the fond memories I have of her. Memories of my childhood overtake my mind. Unconsciously I stop walking as I start to remember my childhood, year by year. Tears start to roll down my cheeks, shining in the sun's rays. I remember her so well, the way she looked, the way she acted around me. People say I look like her, with my light brown hair, my startling blue eyes the colour of the ocean and some people even say I remind them of her, of the way she spoke to people, as though she always cared about them. I imagine myself aged 5, walking down this exact path, holding mother's hand and swinging it as we walked along. I could never walk with her down this path again.

I loved my childhood, at least the part that had her in it. It all changed when she died.

When I found out mother had died I was at school. I was playing with my friends in the classroom because it was raining outside. Father came running in; tears streaming down his pale face. Mrs Atterbury took one look at him and excused me. Father grabbed my hand; rather roughly I must add and pulled me out of the classroom. Once we were out of school he walked me to the car and sat me in it. He didn't say a single word as we drove out of the school car park and onto the main road. I noticed where we were going and looked confusingly at father. Why were we going to the hospital during school and why is father crying? I asked myself. We reached the hospital and we got out the car, father locked it and pulled me after him as we ran inside. I looked up and saw the massive building looming over me. We reached mother's room and a nurse let us in. Father ran to mother's bedside and began to break down, sobbing and shaking. I was still confused; I was only seven for god's sakes. Father waved me over and I sat on his knee, he pointed at the heart monitor and I saw the flat line, beeping away. I looked at mother then at father. That's when I realized, mother was dead. Her battle with Leukemia was over. The Leukemia won. Tears were now pouring down my face. Mother was dead; I could never hug her, hold her hand or talk to her ever again.