Why was she drawn to the garden at nightfall? So small, barely past toddlerhood, she would slip out after dinner, while the adults were occupied with washing up, or talking in their incomprehensible way over wine glasses. Free of the house, she wandered amongst the plants at ease. Lilies waved about her head, their scent heavy, intoxicating, full of a looming sensuality she had no words for yet. Rose canes towered above her, a veritable cathedral of thorns. She knew better than to touch them but always did, finding the small prickly catch against her skin oddly pleasing; she admired the thorns, curved, crimson tipped. She loved to touch the furry silver leaves of lamb's ears, or the pale dusty fronds of the artemisia. Bent over the carnations, she gently stroked their ruffled petals and inhaled their fragrance. Small stones shone in the fading light, and sometimes a moth would waver by.
She never had more than a few minutes to herself in her green kingdom. Always after a short interval, she would be missed and sought. Her mother grew many things in the garden besides beautiful blossoms and table herbs---there were other plants grown for medicines and charms, and some were not safe for inquisitive hands and mouths. Before the twilight gave way to night, down the path would come her mother, or old Beata from the kitchen, to fetch her back inside.
She loved the garden just as much in winter as in summer. Her mother would suffer no cutting back of stems or dried leaves, insisting the withered leaves be left with their seed-heads and tangled sticks for the comfort of the birds and insects. In the winter garden, she learned different lessons than the lush ones of summer, but no less important. The structures of things laid bare by frost, and the frost itself, enchanted her. She loved to see it all glittering in moonlight, in her stolen moments there.
Her mother had told her the names of all the plants, and sometimes she would murmur them to herself in a sort of song or poem as she moved from one to another: carnation, lily, lily, rose... For her fifth birthday, her mother and Beata strung lanterns from tree to tree, and let her have her cake in the dusky garden, and she delighted in the glowing globes transforming her favourite place with golden light. Light in darkness, the names of things, the knowing of a plant by its scent or touch---so many small magics came to her in the garden.
And in the garden she learned about the immortal cycles of life, seeing through the seasons the transformation of things: how a bud became a flower, how a flower gave way to fruit or hip, and that to seed, and then the seed's long sleep in earth, and its shooting forth into the sun again. All things she watched intently, with a wordless wonder, and her mother watched her through the windows, filled with both wonder and grief at all that lay before her girl.
She never had more than a few minutes to herself in her green kingdom. Always after a short interval, she would be missed and sought. Her mother grew many things in the garden besides beautiful blossoms and table herbs---there were other plants grown for medicines and charms, and some were not safe for inquisitive hands and mouths. Before the twilight gave way to night, down the path would come her mother, or old Beata from the kitchen, to fetch her back inside.
She loved the garden just as much in winter as in summer. Her mother would suffer no cutting back of stems or dried leaves, insisting the withered leaves be left with their seed-heads and tangled sticks for the comfort of the birds and insects. In the winter garden, she learned different lessons than the lush ones of summer, but no less important. The structures of things laid bare by frost, and the frost itself, enchanted her. She loved to see it all glittering in moonlight, in her stolen moments there.
Her mother had told her the names of all the plants, and sometimes she would murmur them to herself in a sort of song or poem as she moved from one to another: carnation, lily, lily, rose... For her fifth birthday, her mother and Beata strung lanterns from tree to tree, and let her have her cake in the dusky garden, and she delighted in the glowing globes transforming her favourite place with golden light. Light in darkness, the names of things, the knowing of a plant by its scent or touch---so many small magics came to her in the garden.
And in the garden she learned about the immortal cycles of life, seeing through the seasons the transformation of things: how a bud became a flower, how a flower gave way to fruit or hip, and that to seed, and then the seed's long sleep in earth, and its shooting forth into the sun again. All things she watched intently, with a wordless wonder, and her mother watched her through the windows, filled with both wonder and grief at all that lay before her girl.
