There was a home made swing attached to a tree, I think David must have made it, I wondered for whom at some point, he had no children in his family to my knowledge, or surely we would have met Perhaps he built it for Marianne, who once was his wife, as she seemed fragile and light like a child and I could easily imagine her set on the swing, smiling and laughing.
The tree was a blossoming tree, pink in bloom. There were other trees at the back of the garden that blocked the neighbours houses from view, a dense crowd of trees. David placed a sign on one reading 'Murkwood' that had an owls face, it's eyes the 'o's in wood. Like lord of the rings. His garden had a pond with large golden fish, some more red than gold, and plants growing in the water with a few others growing out of the thin, slate like, stone edging. A white statue of a nude lady was at the bottom end of the pond, facing the swing, her hands swallowed by moss, as if she was clinging on to it with her pottery fingers. But she did not look at the swing, her face tilted towards the water surface, staring at her reflection like Narcissus, her stationary life emitting futile human thoughts.
The pond housed frogs too that my childhood fingers longer to hold on to, perhaps a little too tightly. But I didn't want to hurt anything, or anyone and especially didn't want anything to hurt me. But then, after a long period of absence, David died and I was reluctantly told. Marianne passed not long after. I miss them. All of the memories are still raw, lost in the distance of my Mothers divorce that separated this inspired couple from my childhood and taught me death. The way Marianne's hair moved in her long braid when she lead me and my sister to feed the nearby horses with autumnal apples, she was unafraid of their wildness. David's pink telephone piano, the numbers piano keys. He used to learn the tune of your phone number rather than the digits. I used to make a racket and possibly a high phone bill. The car indicator buzzers he made, one sound for left, another for right. The bright, blue songbird wind chime my Mother gifted Marianne once. Home-made wine under a home-made pergola. Inventions, music, fish-tanks, dark wood, video tapes, puzzles, my Rubik's cube.
Once they were gone the whole garden changed to winter in my mind. When I dream of it I climb into it from the back, Murkwood long gone and replaced by a twisting of brambles and brown nettles that claw at me and I pull myself through. The blossom tree still has the swing attached to it although it is rotting and has gone grey, the swing moved faintly in defiance to the lack of breeze. I touch the wood seat of the swing and feel the softness of age. I feel eyes watching me from the house but turn to no evidence. The pond is empty, dry of water, starved of life. The bathing Lady is gone too, but the moss around her fingers stayed, nude in patches from her absence. I get the urge to climb in the pond, down away from haunting guilt and absence, haunted by happiness. Then I hear their laughter from the house. But then I wake up.
The tree was a blossoming tree, pink in bloom. There were other trees at the back of the garden that blocked the neighbours houses from view, a dense crowd of trees. David placed a sign on one reading 'Murkwood' that had an owls face, it's eyes the 'o's in wood. Like lord of the rings. His garden had a pond with large golden fish, some more red than gold, and plants growing in the water with a few others growing out of the thin, slate like, stone edging. A white statue of a nude lady was at the bottom end of the pond, facing the swing, her hands swallowed by moss, as if she was clinging on to it with her pottery fingers. But she did not look at the swing, her face tilted towards the water surface, staring at her reflection like Narcissus, her stationary life emitting futile human thoughts.
The pond housed frogs too that my childhood fingers longer to hold on to, perhaps a little too tightly. But I didn't want to hurt anything, or anyone and especially didn't want anything to hurt me. But then, after a long period of absence, David died and I was reluctantly told. Marianne passed not long after. I miss them. All of the memories are still raw, lost in the distance of my Mothers divorce that separated this inspired couple from my childhood and taught me death. The way Marianne's hair moved in her long braid when she lead me and my sister to feed the nearby horses with autumnal apples, she was unafraid of their wildness. David's pink telephone piano, the numbers piano keys. He used to learn the tune of your phone number rather than the digits. I used to make a racket and possibly a high phone bill. The car indicator buzzers he made, one sound for left, another for right. The bright, blue songbird wind chime my Mother gifted Marianne once. Home-made wine under a home-made pergola. Inventions, music, fish-tanks, dark wood, video tapes, puzzles, my Rubik's cube.
Once they were gone the whole garden changed to winter in my mind. When I dream of it I climb into it from the back, Murkwood long gone and replaced by a twisting of brambles and brown nettles that claw at me and I pull myself through. The blossom tree still has the swing attached to it although it is rotting and has gone grey, the swing moved faintly in defiance to the lack of breeze. I touch the wood seat of the swing and feel the softness of age. I feel eyes watching me from the house but turn to no evidence. The pond is empty, dry of water, starved of life. The bathing Lady is gone too, but the moss around her fingers stayed, nude in patches from her absence. I get the urge to climb in the pond, down away from haunting guilt and absence, haunted by happiness. Then I hear their laughter from the house. But then I wake up.
In Loving memory of David and Marianne Dalmore
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All works Copyright Kate Ruston 2014
Thank you for reading. Please show your support by clicking like, commenting and following.
All works Copyright Kate Ruston 2014
All works Copyright Kate Ruston 2014
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