A single glance out of my bedroom window overwhelms me with a thousand memories and every emotion attached to them. My gaze settles on the poppy field just the other side of my garden fence. June has flourished, and my eyes are greeted with a vibrant sea of red. Just like Monet’s paintings, a crowd of large pine trees gather in the background, whilst the dull sky lingers above. The sun has become shy, hiding behind passing clouds, allowing only a single beam of light to hit the stream every now and again. The water glistens, reflecting the true mood of summer, before darkening once more.
It was slightly windy today, and I refocus on the poppy field, admiring the pure beauty of these flowers as their delicate petals dance with the playful breeze.
Just over to the west of the poppy field lives the ancient fig tree. It is a wise man, standing alone, waiting patiently for someone to come along and listen to his story. I am sure the tree has a storybook of tales to tell, it has been there since before my grandmother was born. She was buried under the tree too, and now whenever I feel lonely I sit near the roots and speak to her. She always listens, and the tree does too.
I remember introducing you to the tree once.
It was a dire day, and you had promised a picnic but the weather seemed to disagree with the idea. We stayed indoors and watched as the rain violently threw itself at my window. The new herb garden my mother had planted the day before had been ruined. We giggled slightly as she yelled out the back door, whilst the wind howled and hissed in response.
Eventually the wind let up and the sky ran out of tears to cry. Mother nature’s tantrum was over, so we decided to head outside and begin our picnic. We made our way across the back garden, pausing only to give my mother a sympathetic look as she mourned the broken herb plants.
We hopped across the river stones and ended up in the poppy field. The flowers were drenched and they looked rather sad, but as we began crossing the field their petals flared up like fire, the flames licking our feet as we trod carefully across the field towards the old wooden gate.
I slipped your skinny hand in mine and lead you towards the fig tree. I told the tree your name and you politely introduced yourself. One of it’s branches wavered slightly in the damp breeze, and we both took that as an invitation to sit down.
We had our picnic, we laughed, we gossiped, and we shared our first kiss. All beneath the old tree. It is a memory I cherish now, a truly divine moment of my life.
I sigh and look back at the poppy field before turning my gaze to the new and improved herb garden. The clouds have begun to clear and the sun has now gained enough confidence to shine down on the landscape. It is a truly magical view, I could never tire of it. It is my childhood, and it deeply saddens me that the times I have spent with you here are now nothing more than a distant memory. It is a wonderful view, but like a jigsaw missing the final piece, it needs you, underneath the fig tree with me, to make it perfect.
