APRIL 1997
The Girl Who
Always Thought It Was Summer
Garden Without Figures
China 1936
Garden Without Figures
China 1936
by John Willson
Four or five steps away from the circular
entrance through a white wall
you focus on the rock-bound pond inside.
Softened in the foreground
interlocking T's and L's in the carved mahogany gate
and glossy tiles that rim the opening
occupy the width of your field.
Replacing the lens cap
you accept the wisteria's
blossoming invitation of shade
under a bamboo trellis
you step across the threshold to a cobbled path
that curves into a garden
leaving me
this framed view on my desk
my face reflected in the glass
my eyes your eyes.
You leave me quietly Father
the way you always moved
the way you left when I was thirteen:
you in bed with a nagging chest cold one day
absent the next day after school
never coming home from the hospital.
You left me angry at your calm
precisionthe perfect
drop of glue at the tip of your toothpick
the day we joined the engine block
halves of the Model T we built
you builtseamless
and intricate as a Chinese garden
the day I only wanted to play outside.
You left me angry at your weak heart
and the rest of my life without you
but here with you
outside a garden where I've never been
a garden I remember for you
I find a stillness
and I leave you
these imperfect words.
© The Raven Chronicles 1997