"Secret Garden" drabbles by T. Willemann

Waking up

Secret Garden #3

It began like any other Monday; mom had troubles starting the Beetle, traffic congestion made progress slow, and Mrs. Andersen welcomed me with smiling eyes and a warm hug.

When mom left, we set up the croquet game, played until noon, and then ate pasta on the terrace.

At naptime, I got under my quilted blanket on the couch. Mrs. Andersen closed the blinds, sat down next to me, sang in her soft voice, and stroked my hair until I slept.

I dreamt about the sunflowers in the garden – I often did.

Then a child’s voice woke me up.

Mrs. Andersen

Secret Garden #2

Not having children of her own was a conscious choice, Mrs. Andersen explained.

“How else could I love you enough, Thomas?”

She then reached out her fleshy arms, hugged me, and kissed my forehead. When my mom did anything like that, I’d quince and try to escape. With Mrs. Andersen I’d press against her ample chest, wrap my skinny arms around her; pray that she’d never let go.

We mostly played games, hide and seek, soccer, croquet, but also plated flowers and herbs.

After my nap, we’d sit on the terrace, eat oatmeal cookies, wait for my mom to arrive.

The House

Secret Garden #1

The immaculate white walls of Mrs. Andersen’s four-story townhouse is my first memory.

Mom must have taken me there in her blue Beetle, and the car’s rear mounted air-cooled boxer engine must have made its distinct puffing sound all the way.

Also, I must have gotten out of the car, and mom must have rung the doorbell, witch must have caused Mrs. Andersen to get up from her rocking chair, walk down the hallway, open the door and smile.

But that's deduction.

Only thing I truly remember is the incredible whiteness of those walls.

Before the red stains.