The gate was a sign of the times. In disrepair, broken and neglected.
Like the garden it once protected, it too lay overgrown, discarded by the ones who once valued and treasured its beauty and magnificence.
There was a time when the garden was a place to meet. Families walked there, enjoyed the fruits of the labours of the many gardeners who took pride in the rose beds, the shrubbery, the trellis’ resplendent in spring heralding the end of winter and the hope of warmth and plenty.
I walked there recently. The memories came flooding back, the swing that hung from the giant jacaranda, its purple flower hanging from every branch and covering the ground underneath is a most luxurious mat of the same. My neighbour’s children always with a ball, throwing it, batting it, they loved the play space and many an important game of cricket was played.
Now everything is overgrown, the swing, the garden seats, the green open space all reclaimed by nature as if there was never any significant past.
As I left I felt the rust on the gate, it refused to move when I pushed on it, stubborn now in its resistance to the changes around it. I walked along the wall on my way home remembering the day we climbed it and my brother Jack fell and broke his arm.
Everything in my life now seems a series of memories, I cling to each one, they are what I am today.