We’d crest the hill that welcomed us into Worcester and be
greeted by the waving and flailing trees, precarious in the wind, and turn we'd left
into my grandparent’s driveway, through the wrought iron gates tangled in vines
and creepers and drive, like intrepid explorers, down the stretching driveway and to the door of the sprawling house.
When I was a child my grandparent’s house always seemed to
be like a jungle: a dense tangle of shrubs and trees and unexplored territory.
The crowded bush was mysterious and sometimes even hostile.
I feared venturing off the paved driveway: I could imagine poisonous plants and
vengeful animals with sharp teeth waiting to afflict me.
My mother told stories of the fruit trees from her youth,
and made the jungle seem approachable and maybe magical. My favourite tree,
auspicious amongst the many, was the cumquat tree that spilt its ripe
fruit over the cement and in the pool. My sisters and I would swim laps in the
icy water and eat cumquats and mulberries in the blistering sun.
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