Subliminal thorny rose bushes of bittersweet memory bloom in abundance. A menagerie of extravagant sunflowers, famous for their temperament and blissful brightness grow along the outskirts. An orchard of fertile trees, fruits of all sorts and seasons consume their own section of the Garden. Intertwined with grape vines, red and white, desire and pleasure. Exotic delights, the brilliantly colourful Hibiscus and the pale, fragrant Jasmine flower alongside indigenous wonders, the boisterous King Protea and meek Aristea. A stately vegetable garden prospers; carrots, tomatoes, asparagus. Complementary, a miniature herb garden growing bushels of coriander and thyme, rosemary and mint. Copious wild mushrooms and toadstools dot the landscape. Medicinal plants flourish too, aloe and ginger. A pristine pond housing water lilies and numerous species of fern occupies a corner. The Garden, abuzz with beautiful birds of a variety of species, an insect-haven, welcoming to all. In the very center, stands an overwhelmingly large fountain paved in cobblestone. Existing as an ode to the Greek Goddess of fertility and agriculture, Demeter. The fountain spews and gurgles and splashes, alive and thriving, the centerpiece to an entire ecosystem. Despite its size and exuberance, the Garden exists only between the four walls which enclose it. Plain and grey, riddled with ivy and accessible through one rusted, iron gate.
The Garden is meticulously kept, obsessively even, by its young gardener. It served as her inheritance, bar her striking physical resemblance it was her only linkage to her late mother. Upon acquiring it, the Garden had been in utter ruin. A derelict piece of land which her mother had once dedicated her life to had decayed into a festering rot. Infertile soil ridden with weeds and pests, broken down walls overtaken by cobwebs. Where there had once been an intense and unexplainable beauty, only death and rubble had remained. Believing the Garden to be her mother’s only legacy, the gardener restored the space to its former spectacle.
As a therapeutic experience, the gardener allowed her memories and her being, her most intimate thoughts, feelings and desires to reflect within the Garden, a coping mechanism following her mother’s suicide. Ultimately, the Garden had become a physical manifestation of her own complex psyche. She found the rosebushes to be symbolic of her first love, a beautiful doe-eyed girl with a devilish grin and a fiery temper, a kind heart and gentle voice. The wild mushrooms were her desire to be free, to break away and thrive within her own capacity, minus the constant weight of expectation. Medicinal plants allowed her to reflect on childhood ailments, natural remedies which her father had always insisted on. The gardener found comfort in the small Aristea and strength in the bellowing sunflower. In the water lilies she sought contentment and peace, the ferns kept her grounded. The fragrant Jasmine smelt like home and the bold Protea reminded her of her father. Both the vegetables and the herbs reminded the gardener of her mother, of family, of home-cooked meals and a lifetime of love. An amalgamation of sunsets and sunrises, of pet tortoises and coffee in the morning, whiskey fueled nights and an infinity of experiences and memories existed within the walls of the Garden. However, the most important motif remained in the fountain. A representation of her will to live, a referral to existence and endurance. It posed as a means of remembrance, a reminder of anguish and betrayal and pain and suffering, an ode to the endless beauty and incredulity that coincides with the throb of humanity, but ultimately, it reminded the gardener of her ability to just keep on going. Keep gurgling, bubbling, flowing, replenishing, and rejuvenating. The fountain served as an everlasting symbol of her ability to thrive despite the darkness that existed in her head, despite the demons she constantly fought off, despite her constant despair and ache at the pain of existence, the gardener always found solitude in her Garden.
The gardener was pedantic, watering the Garden daily, tending to the bushes and pruning, preening. She ensured every flower received the perfect amount of sunlight, harvested the fresh vegetables and herbs, made herbal concoctions from her medicinal plants. She made sure to be rid of snails, pests, any detriment to the wellbeing of her beloved Garden Her commitment was impeccable, countless hours were spent ensuring that the beauty endured every season and every disaster. She existed through the memories and the experiences, the thoughts and the feelings which she had poured into the creation of the Garden, but ultimately thriving only in the past. Refusing to grow new flora, refusing the arrival of new fauna. She began to lose herself in what was, her grasp on reality ever-weakening. The gardener’s obsession over the past was at the detriment of the fountain; what was once an incredible sight began to fall apart. The more time invested in the roses and sunflowers, the aloe and ginger, the mint and the orchard, the worse it became. The stone grew cracked and dirty, weathered and old. Weeds grew from the cracks, overtook the beautiful structure and suffocated it. A hideous monstrosity amidst decaying memory. Eventually, the water slowed from a brazen gurgle, a loud bubbling, to a slow and morbid trickle. As the center of the once thriving ecosystem began to deteriorate, the gardener found that despite her continued efforts, the entire Garden which she had so meticulously restored began to degenerate.
The gardener found herself slipping off the edge of an entirely unforeseen cliff. Caving in to the voices in her head, desperate to end the ache of existence without the Garden as a means of escape. The further into the void she found herself falling, the more jumbled her memories became. The more confusing her thoughts and feelings wound up, until ultimately she found herself unable to distinguish past from present, reality from that which existed only within her head. It became an increasingly difficult task to remain sane as the gardener wandered around the ruins of her splendor, it’s potential dissipated. Now uniquely capable of understanding her mother’s actions, the gardener found herself following the same path.
And once more, the Garden was left derelict, in ruin. A festering rot of death and longing where beauty once stood. No more bright blossoming sunflowers or tempting rosebushes. There were no longer orchards of fertility or grapevines of delight, all the exotic flowers and indigenous blooms perished. The walls crumbled and the iron gate all but disintegrated. Not a single living organism remained, except the wild mushrooms which endured. Eventually they overtook the landscape, a speckled mess of dark browns and pale yellows. She had finally broken free, finally without the weight of expectation. The gardener was without the weight of existence.