The Garden of Remembrance.

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The Garden of Remembrance

Emma Thompsell

I spent much of my childhood in a tree.  Our garden was big and if you ran down the path, avoiding the wolves that lived next door you were very safe, isolated from the outside world by soaring bushes, their leaves cool to the touch.  A huge mulberry bush grew by the lawn, its branches making a woven screen.  With little difficulty, it was possible to enter a clearing inside the bush, and eat the juicy fruit, the juice running down your chin, and staining indelibly your clothes.  On the lawn were rings of mushrooms where the fairies held their council, of which I always dreamed of being a member.  Beads of dew formed on the long grass, lanterns the fairies had left behind.  To the left of the lawn was a wall, and an archway entrance.  It was a deserted castle of which I was the princess.  From the top of the wall, you could see the whole garden.  It was easy to get up there, by climbing on the hard stone bench and then up the mossy lion.  A few apple trees grew on the other side of the stone room near to the crumbling shed.  The third tree from the shed was my tree.  Its bark familiar, and its branches smooth from years of touch.  The highest branch was my throne where I spent most of my time, watching the brown ovals of people’s heads and listening to their conversations.

I especially enjoyed watching her.  The light bounced off her hair impressively, like it did off the kingfishers we saw in Devon.  If I leant forwards until the tips of my fingers reached the branch below, I could see her whole face.  She was very beautiful.  Every one said so.  Her eyes were big and brown, just like I wanted mine to be.  Her long, straight nose seemed to be made for looking down.  Often I would practise in the mirrors in the hall that look of hers until I could mimic it exactly.  In fact, most of my early childhood was spent copying her, trying to be like her.

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I was almost eight when I realised she was not my mother.  I suppose she must have been my stepmother.  I had spent the morning out at the goldfish park with her.  Marine Gardens it was called.  The salty air was uncharacteristically warm and I took my bike.  The little café was full and people overflowed onto the grass of the putting green.  They were mostly tourists with their cheap cameras and bulging waists.  The cross old man who ran the place where you got balls and clubs for the mini-golf was trying to shoo them away.  Just behind the ...

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