Stourhead Gardens
A Short Story
In the southwest region of Wiltshire, within a property quite isolated from the city, lay a garden that lingered somewhere between the brink of magic and actuality. It was here where we played hide-and-seek between the bushes that seemed to embrace us, acted out the skits we would write while the morning dew still rested on the grass, and waved farewell on opposite sides of the bridge where we would meet again the next morning. Not long after, it was here where I asked her to meet me.
Looking over the bridge at my reflection in the water, I wonder if Stourhead gardens would have achieved a magical state if my fond memories of it hadn’t been inundated with the ache from one painful one. I thought of the hot summer afternoon we spent laying on the grass talking about nothing. Her head resting on my stomach as she babbled on about something I wish I could remember. At the time, it felt like one of those transitional moments between the past and future elation. Looking back, I realize this moment was the elation itself.
I’m standing in the exact place I was years ago, which seems to be worn by time. The insipid garden is a desolate product of our years spent tending to its flowers. A dulled colour seems to have conquered the vibrant pigments of the tulips. The kinetic waters that once trickled playfully between my toes have become poignantly…
