Deeper Into Descriptive Writing

The Garden Of My Heart

The garden still stood. Somewhat secretively, tucked away behind fragrant orange groves that lined the university of my youth, was a humble little garden, which like me, was getting on in years. It remained well-disguised at the end of a small dirt path now bordered by heaps of honeysuckle, hiding its existence.

Pausing, I pluck and suck the nectar from one of the many white and yellow blossoms. Its sweet succulence soothes my parched mouth. A beautiful butterfly flutters by. My eyes follow. I'm captivated by its mesmerizing, shiny black & iridescent blue hind wings. As I run my hand against the brush of the sickeningly sweet, flowering vine, I'm bit by its protective thorns; a bit of blood trickles down my hand as it insists on making me its victim. Continuing my search, I look around for a worn out, weather-beaten sign that I recall being affixed to a whitewashed, iron-wrought gate. It had been at least a decade since I had meandered through these lush gardens and greenery, but It was one of those spring days with a kiss of crispness that somehow highlighted the warm rays of the sun and the sound of the gentle spring breeze urged me on - it was a perfect day to take a stroll down memory lane along the cobblestone path which led to my secret garden.

Upon finally finding its veiled entry, I push open the now rusted metal gate which squeals loudly as if it is as happy to see me as I am to be there. Barely inside, I stand disarrayed as I sadly stare at the abandoned grounds and imagined what toil it would take to restore it to its former charm. Across the cracked cobblestone path, draped in overgrown thistle, I see the green gabled gazebo where a braw Scottish lad, kilted in plaid, once serenaded me. Carefully crouching down amidst flakes of peeling paint and dry-rotted boards, I close my eyes in reminiscence. I can still hear his Elvis rendition of "Falling in Love with You". I relish in the welcoming whiffs of a few wild roses which have somehow escaped being choked out by the leafy green vine that has made itself at home by wrapping around what remains of the gazebo lattice. A sensation of warmth embellishes my cheeks- I recall his scent of musk that mysteriously lingers in the air. My moment of tranquility shattered by the whizzing of a giant black and yellow patched bumblebee whirring by on its way to join comrades collecting pollen and nectar from a nearby buzzing choir of weedy wildflowers. I curiously observe the communal chorus of workers cooperating on their daily mission; their furry bodies rhythmically dancing in and out to the tune of nature's music creating a sunshine filled magical moment.

I shift my eyes around to the trees and rocks that line the remnant of the moss covered, crumbling, cobblestone path. I pinpoint the bench that marked the spot where we had calligraphically carved our initials with his bright red Swiss Army knife into the sticky bark of the pine-dripping fir tree, as if to seal our love in sap. Walking over, I run my hand against the gashes and grooves forever engraved in the timeless tales of a tree. Reliving the moment, I sit down on the cool, hard cement bench and close my eyes again. Another cloudy night rolls in, covering the last of the twilight sky. A droplet of water wipes away a newly formed tear as it gently touches my nose and continues rolling down to moisten my lips.

The patter of the rain increases, mixed with bursts of birdsong, as if the robins were rejoicing the first of the Spring rains to come. Earthy petrichor scents permeate the air. The grass is becoming glossy, reflecting the light, as if shining softly and waving me on. So, opening my umbrella, I wander nostalgically back to my childhood home.