Thursday, 9 April 2015
Au printemps la pelouse se couvre de couleur avec les primevères et chaque année cela remplissait de joie le coeur de maman qui disait "ces primevères, c'est un enchantement !". Aujourd'hui elle n'est plus là pour le voir ni pour le dire et j'ai fait le tour du jardin avec beaucoup d'émotion.
This the garden of my youth, the garden where I used to spend my Sundays and holidays; it was my grand-parents' and then became my mother's. This is the garden where I used to climb every tree, pick raspberries that I stuffed myself on, where I used to pick walnuts and hazelnuts from under the trees and crack them open by banging them with a stone, eating them on the spot and leaving little heaps of broken shells on the steps. This is the garden at the far end of which we had a little children's house with real glass windows and a door that locked with a key, with a concrete floor and sturdy child-size wooden furniture, tin or porcelain crockery, small glass vases where we would place tiny bouquets and best of all, a stove that we children could make fire in with very little parent supervision. It's a garden of freedom and adventures filled with memories.
In the spring the grass fills up with primroses which are a fiest for the eyes. My mother loved them. Every year she would marvel at the colourful sight and say "these primroses are just magic". This year she's neither there to see them or say it and I walked around the garden with much emotion.