Our old house has forgotten us. My little boy and I walked past the place this afternoon and it seemed as if we had never lived there, though I noted little reminders of our once upon a time residence. The little bucket and spade my boy used to dig up the soil to plant sunflower seeds and the rake I had left against the wall by the green front door, still stood there, untouched by the new inhabitants. Obviously less avid gardners than my son and I. We miss the garden most. The apartment was small and dingy with a shower in the damp ridden cellar. The ghastly smell of rot would steep through the walls of our home and at night the spiral stairs outside our door looked quite spooky. But the garden was beautiful. The seventy year old landlady kindly set up a swing for my son, then only 2 years old, out in the centre of the lawn and secured the stairs where there was no railings. It was just the two of us and it was a relief to escape the tiny apartment and be out in that garden. With towering trees and a vast lawn we felt truly blessed.


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