Uncle's Garden

The smell came first. Wallflowers and snapdragons. No adult ever told me I could not pick a head or so to play with. In the scorching sun with no hat on, I had flower puppets that talked and even became friends.
Droppìng these I would walk down meandering cinder paths, my hands reaching out to pull fragrant petals from red and white roses,yellow too, guarded by thorns. I ignored the scratches and entered worlds of castles and fairies and presentations of exotic perfume pressed from the sweet smelling petals and filĺed my tiny plastic basket with more that had escaped the bush and fallen to the ground.
The jump over the tiny privet landed me then on a lawn that always seemed patterned with straight lines, freshly cut. The smell of newly mown grass fresh in the air, I would make my way to jump in and scatter the pile neatly placed by the bin at the end of the garden and return to the house for boiled egg in a striped blue egg cup and soldiers of toast on a matching plate, having climbed mountains and crossed valleys in my imagination.
So, to bed. The curtains closing the world of daytime dreams and playtime gardens and tiredness pulling me into the world of sleep.

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Image Credit » https://pixabay.com/en/gardening-can-garden-equipment-575442/ by OpenClipartVectors