I often come to this garden. I don’t know why. Well, yes I do, but I seldom talk about it. Way too personal.
Anyway, I come. So relaxing and clouded with long lost memories and mysteries.
The fountain is gone, but the statue remains. Don’t know why, but I suspect money had something to do with it. Money always seeps in to turn simple harmony and blissful joy into something else.
But, wonder of wonders, the statue is still here. The boy with shells at his feet and a clear face of welcoming joy. It’s not a smile. It’s a knowing. A connection. Do you know what I mean? I don’t blame you if you don’t. These days, adult lives are burdened with what they can buy, as if that means anything. Things are tinged with money.
Ah, well, too much blather. Let me listen to the songs of birds, the rustle of the leaves, the warmth of the sun, my breathing in and out that keeps me knowing I’m alive, a part of the world.
The poets knew, the philosophers knew. Children know. At least the happy ones.
As I sit on this bench and marvel at the look on the boy’s face, the statue, I reflect on poems. You probably don’t want to hear that rant. But, it’s important to me. So here it is.
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
William Wordsworth knew what the hell he was talking about. Pity you if you don’t.
One day, I just heard a voice, or maybe the swaying of the trees. Nope. Not a tree, a boy. A little face appeared from behind a bush. Couldn’t be more than four or five.
“Hi,” he said. “Why are you sitting on this bench?” Light brown hair. Blue eyes. Tan shorts held up by tan suspenders, sewed in at the back, buttoned at the front. A white, short sleeved boy’s polo.
A clever boy. Went right to the heart of it.
“I like it here.”
“Me, too,” he said.
“Where are you parents?”
He pointed to the garden café, maybe only ten or fifteen yards away. A woman waved and smiled. Good parents, keeping a sharp eye.
“Why do you come here?” he asked.
I looked at him. “To see my brother. Do you have a brother?”
“Where is he?”
I pointed to the statue.
“I don’t have a brother,” he said, looking hard at the statue, trying his best to understand. Then he turned back to me and asked an honest question. “Why do you call him your brother?”
“When I grew up, I didn’t have a brother. I was lonely. Have you ever been lonely?”
He nodded, eyes downcast as if it shamed him. He looked back at me. “Not all the time. But I wish I had a brother.”
His mind skipped to birds and flowers, asking me questions that I struggled to answer. I knew the names of the common ones, pointing out a robin-red-breast, a bright red male cardinal, an English sparrow, some lilies and black eyed Susans.
“You know a lot,” he said, his voice so serious. “Who taught you?”
“My mother and my brother.”
“But you didn’t have a brother. Not a real brother.”
“Have you ever had a make-believe friend?”
He nodded slowly. “I call him Frank.”
“Why Frank?” He shrugged. Out of the blue, “Will you be my brother and teach me things?”
I did my best to hold back tears that had been held back for years, maybe decades. I remembered the lonely days, the days of longing. I was like the boy. I had talked for hours with the boy-statue, my only friend. It gave me joy. I loved him, needed him.
“Why are you crying?”
“I still love my brother,” I said, wiping away the streaks running down my cheeks.
“Will you be my brother?”
“Oh my God, son!” The tears could no longer be held back.
“I’ll be your brother and we can both have the boy-statue as another brother,” he said. His face lit up as if he’d discovered heaven.
The boy’s mother approached, short, slim, smiling. “Is he bothering you?”
I quickly wiped my face. “No, no, he’s fine.” I should have said he’s brought me more joy than I’ve ever had.
“Momma, momma, he’s going to be my brother!” His excitement showed eyes as bright as the bright sunshine.
She smiled again and put her arm on his shoulder. “What’s that about?”
Now the boy is grown. I haven’t seen him in years. But now when I come to the garden to see my brother, I have to wipe away the tears. I can’t help myself, I miss him so, and always will. But the statue is still there and still my brother.
