It is said that we should forget our past and move on, but I can't, how could we let go off those memories which act as an escape place for us. For me it's less than a memory and so much more than a dream. Even today I can feel softness of the lush green grass, the mild aroma of garden still intoxicates me, I can feel the colours enhance, the warmth of their love and care greets me. Between the neat beds of crimson bloom the fragrance is a portal which grants me a fleeting visit to my grandfather's front yard. It was the envy of the neighbourhood in that sleepy retirement town, but how he and my grandmother loved it. To walk there was to be bathed in heady perfume. I would run between the beds with small delicate toes within those shiny shoes over the petaled ground. In my mind it was confetti from the summer carnival and I was the princess again. The transitory evocation ends abruptly by the passing strangers in loud conversation, landing me back in the present day where my shoes are dull, toes are seasoned and hardened.
Reality hits me hard because now I no longer dream of ball gowns and princes...
© Sanhita Sonavane
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