Writing for Fun
October 2015
The Secret Garden - Maureen Rampersaud
The moonlit seed heads of the cardoon clustered and oscillated like a meeting of crowned royals. He marvelled at the sculptural quality of the plants that his wife had created. This was the first time he had truly looked at her garden . . . hers, because he couldn't lay claim to any of it. He blushed with shame as he remembered the many times she had coaxed:
'Let's sit at the end of the garden, the roses smell divine,' or
'Hold my hand, close your eyes and I'll lead you to my favourite part of the garden.'
Every time, each and every time, he had declined with excuses of work or tiredness or something.
He walked to the end of the garden and sat on the bench, feeling very alone, knowing he should have her next to him. The scent of the roses enveloped him. Roses for love, her love for him and he had idly caste it aside. His eyes focused on a narrow gap in the hedge. Squeezing through, it opened onto a small circular lawn, surrounded by a myriad of roses, a tapestry of shapes, colours and . . . oh the perfume was intoxicating! Suddenly he understood that she had wanted to show him this, her secret garden, a symbol of her love for him, while he was blinkered, 'busy making other plans.'
Maybe it wasn't too late to get her back.
The strength of her love overwhelmed him. He caught sight of low-growing flowers, recently planted, looking like rivers of blood. He knew these . . . Love-lies-bleeding.
He sank down onto the damp grass. Her message was loud and clear, she was never coming back.