Just thinking of the word "Peony" evokes a powerful memory of the senses. The sweet scent fills a hunger, the velvety touch of each petal is remembered. Even the awe of a tiny red haired child, amazed by the busyness of ants doing their work. Wonderment. Delight. A moment in time forever relivable, to grasp anytime I want. This was Grandma's backyard
And it doesn't stop there.
A Raspberry Tree always available to hide in the branches. Their scent is later in the summer. When the ground is covered with them rotting, the flies are everywhere drinking nectar. A trellis of deep red roses. I make perfume from its petals to sell in an imaginary shop. I flavor with vanilla the starchy insides of a plant referred to as "indian gum". I plant forget me not seeds - they never germinate.
I wonder is there power in child hood or powerlesness? I felt this tiny triangular plot of land as my domain. It was huge in my youth - now seemingly postage sized. Is it the change of my size from a tiny girl to an adult that changed its perspective? Or is it that my experiences have broadened my life so that my childhood space shrunk?
