The garden was alive with butterflies, ants, ladybugs and pill bugs. Spiders made huge webs sparkled with dewdrops. Occasionally, praying mantes and cicadas visited the garden as well. After the rain, I often found frogs and slugs, sometimes snails. Warblers and sparrows would sing on the branches of the pine tree.

Next to the pine tree, there was a fragrant olive tree. My mom adored its flower.

“Can you smell the autumn?” When it started blossoming tiny orange flowers, she would ask me every autumn. “It’s such a beautiful smell.”

When we had snow, I was excited to build a snowman. But the snow was so light and not enough to make a big one I wish I had. Still, I managed to make a small snowman and put it next to a meter-tall statue of racoon stood in the corner of the garden. I wished it to stay long, but the next morning it was thawed.

In my memory, the garden was always sunny and quiet. Clouds were drifting slowly. A sound of the piano was often heard from the neighbour’s house. When I think of the place where I would like to go back, I would remember the garden. It gives me some kind of direction — something I want in my life. I want a cozy garden in my life.

Probably I am idealising my childhood. But that is the only way I can remember my beloved place because it no longer exists. The house has been sold and knocked down more than a decade ago. Those trees, flowers and animals — everything has been gone.

I cherish the memory of those ordinary days.

I loved that garden.