A Child’s Secret Garden

by Jennifer Wren Call

Behind the house was a garden.
Beyond the garden, a path.
Down the path—through the hush of oak trees,
where squirrels whispered stories of my coming and going,
where branches greeted like old friends—
was the clearing.

A perfect square.
One hundred feet by one hundred feet.
I was five.
Fall was my favorite.

No one talked about it
because I didn’t talk about it.
No signs. No fences. No owner.
Just there.

A secret fabric,
stitched into the quilt of my life—
golden threads of tall grasses
woven by sun and wind.

It was mine, though no one said so.
It asked for nothing.
I offered nothing.
There was no one to ask.
No one to tell.

When the stems turned to straw,
I’d press them flat into a bed
and sleep.
The trees held the edges.
The sky leaned in gently.
The earth and sun were warm—
and knew not to tell.

No chart. No map.
I was the only one who could see.
The meadow was only for me.

A gift from the spirits
who kept me free
from the pain of the loss.
A child, old enough to know—
what it is to be separated
from her mother.

Just memory now,
a small square of wonder,
tucked forever
into the roots of me.