February 27, 2022
Somewhere between concrete and cobblestone I find myself in a garden so lush it looks lost and wonderfully out of place. I’m not sure when exactly the street started to smell like a greenhouse but the scent sits here now and saves my place while I visit my mother’s mother’s house, a couple miles up the road from a small beach that was pleasant enough, with its unobstructed view of the lighthouse and its tame, predictable wavers - but I only mention the beach to say we rarely went to it, my cousins and I. We had our own wading spot, a wilder one, through the woods, past the earthy, overgrown grass of our grandmother’s yard, following the sound of rougher waters, catching split seconds of salty mist in moments when sea clashed with cliffs, running, always, down a narrow path through a garden like this one, so faithfully tended you could smell the adoration in the air.
