Mornings that follow one another and look alike.
What happened to the seasons?
Nothing is the same anymore.
So, I remember…
These afternoons spent playing under the swing in the middle of the garden, between the old pear tree and the plum tree that survived the terrible 1999 storm. The cherry tree will not have this chance.
It was under this large green portico that I could have made my first declaration of love to the one I loved so much. And yet, I didn’t dare.
The big tree at the bottom of the garden on top of which the blackbird came to sing me a lullaby every night on sunny days.
I often climbed it, despite my parents’ concern. I liked spending time hanging on its branches at several tens of meters high.
The sap was sticking to my hands, but the aroma erased the discomfort. And I had a breathtaking view of the wheat fields that stretched just behind the garden wall.
The picking of white and red currants, crouching in the grass just next to the hanging line. The delicious smell that came out of the kitchen when my mother cooked them in the large copper pot to make the best jelly in the world.
The four or five cubic meter of stacked wood we used to bring home for the winter with my father. The stink of sawdust when the chainsaw was cutting logs for the large fireplace in the living room. My eyes were shining at the thought of long winter evenings in front of the burning fireplace.
The Virginia creeper that climbed up the two buildings on either side of the courtyard and had to be pruned once a year. It was filled with sparrows, to the cat’s delight.
My adorable little dog, his crazy runs after the rabbits in the freshly cut wheat fields. With him, the hide-and-seek games in the alleys of the cornfields, the bike rides, huts in the wood. Before the return home, the hanging tongue. I talked to him, he answered me, we always understood each other.
The long hours spent mowing the lawn, zigzagging between the trees, leaving here and there a few squares of daisies, buttercups or primroses. Finally, a glass of fresh mint as a reward for my work, which was really an only pure pleasure.
The lavender tuft in the flowerbed just in front of the kitchen window. The buzzing of bees, bumblebees and other insects enjoying the nectar. My first pictures of butterflies on flowers.
Autumn days raking the leaves and watching the squirrel jump from the neighbor’s chestnut tree to land in our oak tree. My sister and I used to pick hazelnuts under the hazelnut tree that grew next to the cabin at the back of the garden.
The comings and goings of blue titmice picking seeds in the feeder under the apple tree. I liked to watch them while having breakfast as my grandfather did. One day, I started to rebuild the feeder and added several perches so that it could welcome even more birds.
The cricket field on summer evenings, lying on the deckchair next to the lime tree, watching the stars and studying the constellations.
Thinking and rethinking my future, what I will do later when I grow up, and wondering if I will ever be able to leave this house and this countryside, my paradise.
And so many memories, that I could tell you, over and over again.
I’m thinking of you, Jessica Lovejoy, Sabine B., Agnes Louis, Valentin Vieira da Silva, Caroline V., Austin Briggman, Marie M, Valerie Hilal, Karen Banting, Christie Alex Costello, Elle Rogers, and Walter Ferrer.
Would you like to share with me and the readers your own childhood memories? That would be wonderful…