When I was young my mother, younger brother and I would walk through this hidden garden. I would wonder about those forgotten ones who were left to the brambles and thimbleberry brush that sprung up around the dissolving crosses retaken to the earth by moss and decay. Their names becoming part of the sword-fern undergrowth. Here the thimble-berries and black-caps grew full and sweet, and I swear old spirits brushed by us whispering their tales and dreams. I felt enchantment and wonder of such a place. As though a piece of heaven fell and left an impression. It is in this otherworldly place where my parents ashes and many other childhood neighbours reside.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Not far from where I grew up in the forests of cedar and alder is a beautiful clearing, where in the middle a few tall twisty strange trees from another world reside. Its a place of history, a place of memories, fantasies, love, loss, change, growth, as well as neglect and decay.