AltogetherAutumn
It’s time to plant the bulbs. But Iput it off as long as possible because planting bulbs mean making space inborders which are still flowering. Pulling out all the annuals which nature hasallowed to erupt in overpowering purple, orange and pink, a final cry of joy.That would almost be murder, and so I wait until the first night frostanaesthetizes all the flowers with a cold, a creaky crust that causes them towither; a very gentle death. Now I wander through my garden indecisively, tryingto hold on to the last days of late summer.
The trees are plump with leafysplendor. The birch is softly rustling gold, which is now fluttering down likean unending stream of confetti. Soon November will be approaching with itsautumn storms and leaden clouds hanging above your head like soaking wet rags.Just let it stay like this, I think, gazing at the huge mysterious shadows thetrees conjure up on the shining green meadows, the cows languidly flickingtheir tails. Everything breathes an air of stillness, the silence rent by theexuberant color of asters, dahlias, sunflowers and roses.
The mornings begin chilly. Theevenings give you shivers and cold feet in bed. But in the middle of the daythe sun breaks through, evaporating the mist on the grass, butterflies andwasps appear and cobwebs glisten against windows like silver lace. The harvestof a whole year’s hard work is on the trees and bushes; berries, beech mast,chestnuts, and acorns.
Suddenly, I think of my youngestdaughter, living now in Amsterdam. Very soon she will call and ask “Have youplanted the bulbs yet?” Then I will answer teasingly that actually I’m waitinguntil she comes to help me. And then we will both be overcome by nostalgia,because once we always did that together. One entire sunny autumn afternoon,when she was three and a half years old, she helped me with all enthusiasm andjoyfulness of her age.
It was one of the last afternoonsthat I had her around, because her place in school has been already reserved.She wandered around so happily carefree with her little bucket and spade,covering the bulbs with earth and calling out “Night, night” or “Sleep night”,her little voice chattering constantly on. She discovered “baby bulbs”, “kiddiebulbs”, and “mummy and daddy bulbs”, the latter snuggling cozily together.While we were both working so industriously, I watched my kid verydeliberately. She was such a tiny thing, between an infant and a toddler, withsuch a round little tummy.
Every autumn, throughout herchildhood, we repeated the ritual of planting the bulbs together. Every autumnI saw her changing, the toddler became a schoolgirl, a straightforward realist,full of drive. Never once dreamy, her hands in her pockets; no longer happilyindulging in her fantasies. The schoolgirl developed long legs, her jaw-linechanged, she had her hair cut. It was autumn again that I thought “bye roses,bye butterflies, bye schoolgirl”. I listened to her stories while wepainstakingly burrowed in the earth, planting the promise of spring.
Suddenly, much quicker than I hadexpected, a tall teenager was standing by my side. She is taller than I. Theritual became rather silent, and we no longer chatter from one subject toanother. I thought about her room full of posters and knick-knacks, how it hadbeen full of treasures in bottles and boxes, white peddles, a copper brooch,colored drawings, the treasures of a child who still knew nothing of money, whowanted to be read to and who looked anxiously at a spider at her room andasked, “Would he want to be my friend?”
Then came the autumn when I plantedthe bulbs alone, and I knew from then on it would always be that way. But everyyear, in autumn, she talks about it, full of nostalgia for the security ofchildhood, the seclusion of a garden, the final moments of a season. How bothof us would dearly love to have a time machine to go back. Just for a day.
