What is our childhood if not that storage room where we can find all the things we already forgot we had ever stored. Then we grow up to see ourselves in a journey of memories and reconnections.
Mom has put so much work into building a back garden at home. Roses at her favorite. Besides every other reason for she might like them, her name is Rosa (in English, Rose). Thoughtful of me, I’ve been painting this garden with the help of an artist. Once it is finished, I will show it off.
Today I went hiking for a few 18 km. How wonderful to stay away from the crowd, from the worries of life. To feel the cold air. To be kissed by the sun. To see every possible shade of green around. To touch the freezing waters of the river. To hear no other sound than the singing birds and whistling winds. To hear the mud splashing under my boots.
That is when something stabbed my chest. As I walk admiring everything around me, I look down and I see a little boy kneeling on the ground. The boy touches the leaves of every plant around him, finds some dry seeds and entertains himself with the sound he makes when popping those seeds. Whatever that plant is, he does not know. He does not know anything about life either. But he is there. Because his attention has been caught.
It was me. Such a vivid memory. I could almost whisper myself in my own ears that I miss it. Putting my hands in the mud. Touching the leaves of those plants I didn’t know. In the back garden. Mom’s garden.
Migratory Bird 