My mom started this little garden in our backyard.
It was the place where we kept our bikes and my dad fishing rods when we all lived with her.
But years and accidents started to empty the house, until everything that was left in there was a big, blank space, screaming at her: You failed!
So she did her best, she started to fill it with plants. The first ones when i was 15 and my dad left.
Then came the big imported pots, when my sister moved to Maryland and didn’t missed us at all.
Flowers came when i moved away to the south; Bigger ones when i had a baby and took her with me to France.
Gnomes, Frogs, Stone turtles, lies, mistakes, dissapointments.
Now when i visit her i stand there, in the middle of her little safety net, and the air feels different, and the wind chimes talk, and i swear the flowers make a synchronised dance, and i don’t think i’ll ever again see pain all around me, arranged in such a beautiful way.