Laburnums and Loneliness
The woman leans her bike against the cottage wall and talks to a friend walking by. As I get closer, I see she keeps a pretty garden with a laburnum tree, its golden tresses softening the slate roof. I remember the laburnum in the garden of the home where our children were born. New beginnings for me now. I’m alone and a stranger here.
The woman could be the same age as me. I used to be good at guessing ages — my husband liked to catch me out, or try at least. I miss the laughter. Now I’m older, I find it hard to guess how old other people are. Some of us have greying hair and some don’t. Some of us have years etched in our face, and some have skin smooth as peaches still. Age is a number, nothing more.
She sells plants on a trestle table — cyclamen and lavender, old favourites of mine. Through the wrought-iron gate, I see her back garden is just as pretty as the front, grass trimmed and borders filled with leafy shrubs and perennials chosen for year-round colour. Forest flame and azaleas flowering while magnolias fade and hollyhocks grow tall.
Her children, young adults now I imagine, will return to the family home. Not every week or even every month — they have a life of their own. But often enough that she is reminded of those years tending cuts and bruises, lifting them up, seeing them laugh as well as cry. She will have kept them safe from those poisonous laburnum pods. She will no doubt bake cakes, chocolate fudge and lemon drizzle, and she’ll make soup with crusty bread, thickly sliced and perfect for dipping.
It’s a pretty cottage at the end of the row and painted white. It would be just right.
