| Silverbell Lane |
[26 Aug 2008|08:24pm] |
The dense moss underfoot makes walking in the forest almost silent. Sun filters through from above, and in the boughs sing birds, their tiny breasts swelling with songs of summer joy, the breeze that wafts through the trees ruffling their downy feathers and bringing with it a smell… a fragrance that reminds me of a place from when I was very little. Closing my eyes, I find myself drifting far away to that place that is now found only in my memories...
Walking up the lane to Grandma's cottage was always something to remember. Silverbell Lane was aptly named, with large Silverbell trees lining the dusty road, which was little more than a rough dirt path. The old, rotting gate that denied access to any smoke belching cars had stood the test of time well, because according to my Grandma, the gate was as old as her cottage, which had been built by her own father, long before there were cars, planes or electricity. The air hung heavy with the sweet fragrance of tiny, delicate bell-shaped flowers that hung on threads among the leaves above, and every time I smelt that smell, I imagined myself as one of those little snowy-petalled flowers, hanging high above the world, watching the passers-by collect dust on their shoes.
The cottage was at the last bend in the road before the bridge that led to a white pine forest, the forest we had named the Forest of Bones due to the cracked white boughs that had fallen from the trees long ago. We were fearful of that place, because Grandma told us of the wild pigs that lurked among the shadows, ready to gore little boys who might imagine themselves as explorers, although wild pigs or not, we would always be scared of that dark forest and the ghostly, twisted shapes that glowed among those monoliths of wood.
The gate to Grandma's cottage was, in a way, my favourite part of the short journey from the car to the house. It was like opening a door to a different world, a world of strange flowers, fruit preserves and dusty shelves. Between the cobblestones in the path peeked moss and miniature violets, and to this day I have never understood how their tiny seeds found their way into those cracks, and somehow knew the way from the dark nook of their birth to the world of sun and pollen above. I remember asking Grandma this very question, and she told me that fairies had planted them. I didn't believe her, even though I wanted to.
Somehow, Grandma always knew we would be coming. She would be standing on the doorstep, a wrinkly smile lighting up her old face, and from behind her wafted the smells of pikelets with blackberry jam, or home made mince pie. Grandma's cottage was surely a place born in fairytales… her home a Silverbell tree in our busy world of smoke and concrete pavement, her world, which I had wished would last forever.
Standing alone in that magnificient forest, I realise now that it did still live on, in the fragrance of Silverbell flowers, in the moss underfoot, and in the songs of the birds above me.
|
|