The scent of purple flowers

Donovan Gay

When I was young and lived in the Eden of Childhood I knew forever. I conversed with nature; the plants and animals were my playmates. They talked to me, and I with them. They told me the secrets we forget and I told them how I loved forever. I lived in a golden time, where fear did not exist and my Eden lovingly held me in warm, devoted arms.

One day a stranger came to my gate and asked to come into my garden. He was beautiful, with a kindly smile, and brought with him the most heavenly scent. He wore a rich purple suit and in his lapel he wore the most handsome purple flower. He watched as I admired his purple flower; and spoke to me of forever and all its wonder. He said he could see forever in my garden and again asked to come in.

“No,” I said, “it’s my garden and only I can enter.”

He smiled again and in his smile I thought I felt something sinister. He pleaded for a quick visit and I, resolved, turned my gaze from his blue eyes, which seemed to darken while we spoke. I concentrated on his lapel and the flower it bore. It was more beautiful than any in my garden and the sweet heady scent that came with him I now realised was from the flower. The flower spoke to my heart with its delicate beauty. I longed to touch its delicate, ruffled petals and breathe deeply of its intense fragrance. How I treasured this flower in my heart already.

He soon realised that I would not let him into my garden, so he thrust his hand deeply into his jacket pocket and withdrew his clenched fist. Slowly he stretched his arm over the fence toward me saying, “I see how you admire my flower; take these seeds and you can grow them in your garden too.”

I opened my trembling hand with expectation in my heart and smiled as the seeds dropped from his hand to mine. They were gnarled, heavy seeds that felt like lead in my pink palms. As they dropped I saw his skin was a bluish-grey and his long nails were dirty and sharp. I closed my little fist tightly, fearing he may change his mind and take the seeds back. My thoughts lingered on the appearance of his hands and then darted to the prospect of those beautiful purple flowers in my own garden. He smiled and waved as he disappeared behind the gate.

I skipped with childish joy into my garden and was soon digging a small hole to plant my precious seeds. So eager was I to plant these seeds so that they could germinate, grow, leaf and flower that I did not notice the hush that descended on my childhood Eden. I did not listen to the whispered warnings of my playmates, as the impatience to get my seeds planted was over-riding. I did not notice, either, that their song had changed ever so slightly from major to minor.

Yet as soon as the seeds were planted I forgot about them and the beautiful man in the purple suit and returned to my play in the garden. The seeds drifted from my memory like the rain after the sun comes out.

Time passed and I grew; my visits to the garden became less frequent as I slowly became a child of the world. School, friends and chores soon took prominence. I grew from a child to a boy and from a boy to a man.

But the seeds, those dark, heavy seeds, germinated in the protective blanket of the fertile earth of my Eden. Little did I know that they would grow so deeply. How they would fill my life with their purple fragrance. How the darkness of purple hues would intoxicate me and pull me into their depths. Depression would fill my soul with its fragrant and purple splendour.

Donovan Gay has led a varied life, living in South Africa, England and Wales. Jobs have been many from being a Teacher in Snowdonia, a Chief at Harvey Nichols in London, an Accounts Executive in Johannesburg and at the moment self employed as a Horticulturalist. Writing has been part of life since his early teens and continues to be a source of joy. Donovan now lives in Roodepoort and gardens, reads, writes and paints.

LitNet: 12 July 2006

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