The house I think of as my childhood home was a sprawling mess of sunburnt lawn and overgrown gardens. Boxing in the backyard was a mass of succulents marching slowly but inevitably to cover everything in their path save for the occasional cactus. My parents hacked away a place for an apple and pomegranate tree they let grow wild. Their shade was nice but it was the front yard where the magic lived.
Crooked stairs lead to 15 feet of covered walkway to the front door and next to that a spigot with an eternal slow leak. And next to that a bay window overlooking my Jungle. It was always cool and dark there, no angle where the sun could visit. The plants with their big dark green leaves were as tall as me, their flowers taller than that and brilliant pops of color. Birds of Paradise and white Calla Lilies side by side wherever they chose to wander. Lilies of the Nile bordered them in the sunshine. Underneath in the always damp earth the occasional sweet wild strawberry.
I don't know who planted them but I can't help but think they meant to send a message in the language of flowers. Bird of Paradise, Lily of the Nile, Calla Lily.
For me they are still pale and glowing softly in the moonlight, tempting a little boy to slip out and sit in the cool comfortable dark, losing time staring at a jungle of flowers.
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