April 21, 2011
By Anonymous

I have spent most of the days of my childhood in my grandmother’s garden. The green of this place used to shock my eyes, while birds were flattering my ears. Time like a majestic butterfly, was slowly flitting away.
As I open the small wooden gate and enter the garden, couple of tall pomes, I always climb, are right in front of me. Some, full with big apples, others, with juicy but still a bit sour apricots, are ready to be harvested by my picky hands. Red and almost too sweet strawberries cover the ground, around the trees, like a bright Persian carpet with carved rubies on it. First, I visit the top right corner of the garden. On my way I collect some strawberries, they melt in my mouth. Couple of seconds and I reach my destination, acerb-sweet currants. After colouring my tongue with a shade of dark-purple I head to the tallest cherry tree in my universe. Its rough branches are always bending a little as I am slowly climbing to the top. The higher I go the sweeter and redder the cherries are. A faint cracking sound, in the dried branch I step on, foreshadows a fall. As the branch breaks, I cannot grab on to anything on my way down and the force of gravity succeeds with its work. I end up on the ground; and still a fall and couple of light scratches are a tiny price to pay for those huge and wormless cherries. I’ve even heard people jokingly ask my grandmother if somebody brought this cherry tree from Chernobyl.

After all, the most alluring in the garden is not in my grandmother’s garden. My neighbour posses the most appealing honeyed peaches on Earth; and luckily for me, I can always find a couple of ways through the wooden fence, which keeps me from the forbidden fruit. I tip-toe through one of the gaps, and rapidly fall on the ground; the grass is soft and warm. I slowly crawl toward the tree; halfway, I take a minute to focus on the ground, dozens of ants are running busy, forth and back, with treats for the queen. When I make it to the tree, I slowly stand up and grab the heaviest-looking peach. As I bite in, the juices splash over my face as if a huge amount of pressure, built over thousands of years, is released. The poor thing doesn’t stand even 7 seconds against me. I carefully plant the pit nearby, so that in couple of years I have one more tree to harvest. I sneak back in through the same gap or even jump over the fence.

The fun goes on until a piercing but still sweet sound of my grandmother’s voice calls me for dinner. I don’t fight it since I know I am visiting the garden again tomorrow. I sprint toward the house. This is a goodbye for today.

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