The Garden of no return


Do you know what I miss most these days? The long summer nights in my friends’ garden. The disappearing sunlight was dimming slowly, dissolving the memories of the past day, making them irrelevant. The expectation of the new night in the garden all what mattered. The laughs, the chats, the arguments, the us, the silent pitfalls, the feeling of being young and cheerful and free. Even if we weren’t. The feeling all what mattered. With me having no memory for things, I do remember the almost every element of that garden: the wild bushes of attempted vegetables, heavy branches of trees hanging low full of green sour cankered apples, an ornamented table cloth with old stains of wine and candle wax, the hammock indeed and the air… dense for fresh land and greens smell, the land black and rich, the air where bugs are the kings. The garden, which held a meaning of that cave, of a refuge. Refuge for a license of being valuable for who you are  and not for who you want to be. No matter how strong or vulnerable you felt. As if you had that silent unspoken very natural right for existence and in the same time this very existence was making you very very important. The no-judgements garden. Why do I miss it now? Don’t we all miss it?