I’m curled up on a rusty brown swing, reaching down to feel the blades of grass with each sway, listening to the fizz of my lemon-lime pop in the dry summer heat.
My grandmother is in the gazebo, flipping through a gardening magazine made of thick, waxy paper. She’s surrounded by flowers: some hanging, some in pots on the ground, others on plant stands.
The air is filled with floral scents.
Lilac. Geranium. Something I can’t describe.
I get up from the swing and wander through the gardens, over stumps and deadwood, hopping from stone to stone, careful not to squish any flowers — though maybe the occasional earwig or two.
I make my way beneath the shade of white cedars, through the arching shrubs and vines, and watch the bird feeder on the old pear tree.
Every part of the yard is alive.
Birds of all kinds. Bees on every flower. Insects under every stone. Butterflies. Dragonflies. Even the occasional toad.
It’s 1992.
There are no devices.
I’m free.
After my grandmother passed, the property was sold.
The trees were clear-cut, the roots dug out, the gardens removed and replaced by sod and paving.
Sterilized.
