I’m building a garden in my head, an entire small backyard of garden, with stepping stones and moss and trees and flowering plants and lights strung about. I’ve been building this small backyard of garden for days, thinking of a place to hide in, to get lost in, to see and taste and smell, with savory thyme between the stones and wisteria overhead, with honeysuckle and jasmine climbing the sides and lavender and ferns tucked behind cascading green things. A place to share with butterflies and bees. With a willow to share the moonlight.
My new backyard is just the right size for a sanctuary. It’s just big enough to fill with my imagination.
People scoff, but I can’t see why. They see a tiny, useless backyard. It’s just as well. They won’t think any more of my little space. Which means they won’t find me.
I read somewhere that George Bernard Shaw had a writing hut in his backyard. He named it London, so that when people would call for him, they would be told that he’s in London. I’m going to name my garden someplace far away.