The Last Garden

Long, long ago, I was a young boy of eleven. I lived in a far-off place, filled with beauty and mystery. The garden. My grandfather's garden. My family was large and plentiful and we all lived in peace, isolated from the rest of the world in our garden. I ran through this garden, carefree and energetic all the days and all the nights. I could barely wait until my little brother was old enough to come with me into the garden. Come with me so we could run free and frolic together in this magnificent garden of wonder. But he was still too young.

I can still vividly picture that fateful day, all these years later, as if it happened yesterday. The sun was bright and beautiful, like glowing liquid gold warming the garden, warming my skin. There was a breeze, perfect for kite flying. The wind felt like the breath of heaven on my face. The birds made such wonderful sounds, calling to me, chirping and singing the best of melodies.

I ran past the purple irises, the blue hyacinths, the white jasmines, and so many other flowers with only one destination in mind. The tall, green grassy hill with the little cave on top. The grass there was as soft as the fur on a kitten's neck. I passed the stream, the water cool and crystal blue, fast-moving and shining like diamonds.

There was no bridge spanning the ever-growing distance across the river bed, so I jumped and splashed in the river, sending the storks resting there flying off. But they will be back. That stream was their life, with all the shimmering fish forging through the current. With all the frogs and birds and plants. The stream was the center for all the life in the garden.

I finally reached the grassy hill and raced toward my cave, the dark shadow a perfect hiding place. The stones were warm from the sun and I climbed up on top, looking for all the world like a small monkey on a mountain. I reached down, into the stones, and pulled out my kite. My grandfather and I worked so long, weaving the fibers of the riverside plants and spinning the string. My grandfather was a master at crafting and building. We crafted that kite from nothing, and I have used it ever since. The kite was a brilliant purple, like a regal king's coat. There was a twirling tail decorated with bows and a pale blue string leading down to the spool in my hand. This was my kite.

I let go, holding onto the string, and gazed up at the pure, blue sky. It was smooth and only interrupted by fluffy, white clouds. They were so large and so close that I could almost reach up and grab them. I lost myself in that sky. I imagined myself flying free up there, the breeze and winds brushing against my face, the soft cloud fluff clinging to my body as I flew through them. The warm yellow embrace of the sun as I glide ever closer. I lost myself in that sky, imagining that I was the kite and free as a bird.

I fell asleep, dreaming of those clouds. I saw two young boys running hand and hand in the garden. I recognized one of them as me. And the other was my brother. He was finally old enough to play with me. We laughed and ran and jumped and played. I watched as I grabbed my kite and helped my brother fly it. I watched as we swam in the stream. I watched as we raced through the stones. It was a vision of the future and I never wanted it to end. I was so happy and free.

Until I felt myself being shaken.

I opened my eyes to my grandfather, pain and sorrow deeply etched into his once smooth and loving face. His strong, well-worked hands lifted me up. I called out to him, but he didn't respond. I looked up and saw tears snaking their way down his face, like rain on a window pane.

I turned back and saw my glorious kite drifting off into the sky, lost forever. I called out but received no answer. The kite was gone. My grandfather tenderly carried me down the soft hill, across the river, splashing through, not caring if he got wet, adding his tears to the already flowing water.