Eden

I wrote this for a Fine Arts short story competition when I was sixteen.

​The garden is overgrown now. Once clean and well-kept paths are now overtaken by wayward vines and unruly hedges. There is no way to tell the intruders from the planted; lilies and dandelions grow as one, no way to tell wild weeds from cultivated blooms. Vengeful roots and stems have cracked and crumbled the stones I walked upon all those years ago.
​Nothing is as I left it, and I like that way. It seems fitting that this symbol of my innocence should crumble and fade with time in the same way my childhood had; fitting that it would grow out of control in the same way my life had. After all, this garden is was the very place my childhood fantasies thrived and grew; back when I still believed the world was full of good, that is.
Walking through these overgrown weeds and along these broken stones brings back memories of a younger me walking this very path, when the stones were whole and the way was clear. I remember the scent of flowers in the air and the sounds of bees buzzing from color to color. It seems like only yesterday I was chasing butterflies about, my laughter echoing off of these garden walls, serenading every creature it touched along the way. I recall these things with a heavy heart, longing for a time so carefree, back when life was easy and I had no burdens to bear.
The sight of my garden so dilapidated and abandoned only serves to add to the unwelcome longing my heart now feels. The bees have and butterflies have gone now, in search of more coveted land, and there’s no floral aroma or chime of a child’s laughter anymore. The colors of the flowers are a distant memory, swallowed by the green of merciless thorns and vines. Those garden walls, that once stood so tall and proud, have long since fallen, unable to withstand the test of time. And along with these things, I too have changed.
Since the days I walked through these paths I have transformed into something new, like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. Now, whether I make a better caterpillar than a butterfly, I am unsure. But what I am sure of, however, is that in the same way time has taken its toll on my garden, the world has taken its toll on me.
It becomes clearer with every step I take that, even after all these years, my garden and I are still one. For each dilemma I’ve had to face, my garden has had one of its own.
Every broken stone I step upon is a dream I’d once had, and lost. Every petal that’s been pricked by a thorn is another heartbreak I’ve had to endure. Every flower, swallowed and lost in a vine, is a moment of joy this society has robbed me of along the way. And in the same way, every wayward tear that now rolls down my cheek is another way this world has wronged me. I guess you can call these things we face bittersweet, but I call these things tools that have shaped me.
Yes, every moment I’ve lived outside of these garden walls it’s been nothing but evil I’ve suffered and seen. I suspect that this is the way things were always meant to be; life can’t always be easy, in the same the path can always be clear. Once I had outgrown the walls of my garden, there was no turning back I had to learn to lead the life I called my own. But maybe I wasn’t so alone, maybe I just couldn’t see who was standing by me; walking through the garden now makes it seem as though I may be right, that in reality I was never really alone.
Even though the steps I now take aren’t quite the same, and the green that surrounds me couldn’t be more different from the things of my memory, this place is still like home to me. It’s sad that my time here had to end, but it was time for me to stray from my safe haven. So I guess in this way you could call this garden my Eden.

Author's Note

Thank you for reading, feel free to let me know what you think.