The Secret Garden

At the top of my parents' apartment block is a set of rusted iron stairs that lead to a roof - or so I thought. The gunmetal gray sign warns in stern, no-nonsense capitals: 'NO ENTRY - DANGER,' so I have no idea what got me into that afternoon when I decided to climb them. Forcing open the heavy, protesting trap door, I stepped into another world.

For there, facing me was a lush, luxuriant garden I have ever seen. A wrought iron-arch, twisted around with the delicate, interlocking fingers of the fragrant pink roses greeted me, and though it was framed a serenely meandering walkway, sprinkled with sand radiant in the sun like specks of pure gold. Further in the distance the foliage of so many trees along the path, their branches arching over it to embrace one another, formed a rich canvas of greens of every shade and depth as far as the eye could see.

As I took my first tentative steps, the delicate sounds of tiny fountains at either side of the path welcomed me, like a fanfare of a thousand minute orchestras. The earthy smell of water on soil mixed with a joyous melody of sweet floral fragrances and leafy scents from within the trees. It felt like the first morning on Earth. Meanwhile, from below came the distant sounds and smells of the brutal urban jungle which surrounded this hidden garden: cars snarling and screeching at each other; people hooting and bellowing; buzzsaws and pneumatic drills from building sites trampling the ground and reverberating through the earth.

I am at peace. Away from it all.

Yet there was more. Off the main pathway were further routes, like smaller and more delicate streams as I walked upriver. I explored each in turn, and each revealed a fresh delight. Along one, a hammock swung drowsily in the breeze. Along another were neat rows of newly planted, tiny flowers of every color, like dotted lines of wet paint. Despite the searing, dry heat of the surrounding city, the garden seemed cool and fertile, and the flowers were thriving.

How could I have missed this place? Who had created it? Whoever it was must have realized that we all need an escape from the heat, dust, and noise of the city below. As improbable as it seemed, this was a real oasis, not a mirage. And it was mine.

Or was it? From back where I had come from I heard the now familiar creak of the trap door opening. I suddenly felt like an intruder. Time to leave. I crept quickly back to the entrance, careful not to rustle any of the branches as I passed, and was relieved to see that whoever had come in was already out of sight. The door was an open mouth leading from the garden into the belly of the apartment block. With regret, I slipped quietly down the stairs, the sweet smells and the serene sounds of the secret garden gently fading as if they had been nothing but a dream, to be replaced by couples arguing, televisions blaring, and chicken frying.

I was back in the real world.