January 15, 2011

My dearest,

We have always wanted a garden of our own. Not a large, sprawling garden like the ones we have back at our hometowns, a family garden kept in shape by the endeavours of an entire family, shepherded by the one with the greenest thumb, usually the matriach with an eye for flowers in a profusion of colours and blooming in the correct order. No, not one like that.

We don’t even have the space.

Living in an apartment, half-way to the sky, there’s not much space for soil and worms and good fresh manure as a natural fertiliser (the neighbour’s bound to complain, you see). At least we have now moved away from the city centre and into the suburbs. At least we are surrounded by trees now, by a vast blanket of greenery every time we look out of our windows. That’s some solace.

But those trees are not ours. All that green does not belong to me and mine.

We long for a garden of our own.

And one day, we decide to make one. It’s that easy. Making the decision, apparently, is all we needed to do. Then a trip to IKEA to buy an open book stand to double up as a plant rack in our little balcony, a quick grab at a few pots on our way out to cashiers, half a dozen mini-cacti we brought back with us from an impromptu trip to the Cameron Highlands (the baby’s breath, alas, did not survive), and some mint and rosemary we spotted at the grocers (hooray for fresh herbs in pots!) and we are done.

A garden of our own at last!

It’s not much, really, to look at. Just a few pots here and there. A yellow orchid has been added, now. Yet on a rather warm Saturday afternoon, when the ghost of another nap threatens to engulf us, it’s a treat to be able to walk out to the balcony, pluck a few leaves of fresh mint, wash them in the sink, and drop them into glasses of ginger beer and sparkling water, paired only with a dash of lime.

Taste this.

It’s the best of summer, and it came from our garden. A simple blessing and such simple bliss.

Yours, ever and always.