Forgotten Gardens of France

I will build a wall around it so that it will be protected from vermin and thrive just the way I envision it. The soil of my ever-sweet garden shall be so very fertile, boasting of only desirable things, what I like to see, to touch, to taste.... to dream about, as I did back then. Blood red strawberries, for instance, shall be plump and promising. The comparison to a seductive statesman would garner a chuckle, perhaps, however, that would be a most unfavorable comparison to something so genuinely sweet and giving. No, they shall be terrifically tender. Soft and trustworthy like Vladamir's unforgettable, fading blue eyes. My late cousin's soul-sheltering lids guarded not from merely the sun's rays. They saved him from the cutting shrapnel of memory and the sanctity of a six year old boy's keen curiosity. From Krakow he brought his garden of love, wisdom, hardworking know-how and frightened family. From there, he also packed his will to share and care for others less fortunate, those who would also barely evade the borders of doom. With modest shoulders and pride that overlooked his now plentiful garth, perching over the limits of Sedan, as German Panzers once did, he demonstrated the grace of generosity in mentoring his cousin, a boy unstarved, who enjoyed yearly summertime visits from America. It was in the hardest of ways in which Vladamir came to discover that country, a little over thirty years prior. It was in the gentlest manner, however, that he taught this fatherless six year old how to plant, to harvest... to be. What he imparted, was special attention to the nuances, of pure notions and simple things. The sort of awarenss that one inhales when kneeling upon and kneading the earth. Even after lunch, when they would set-out to feed the rabbits and dig alongside the worms, clean and proper attire was marked as a consideration for the boy to not or ever ignore, for there were always neighbors watching, gossiping, waiting and wanting for something to go wrong. Yes, impressions mattered back then. Moreso than today, perhaps. Hence, a shirt's top button was never to be left undone even whilst riding on mo-ped up to le beau jardin. As the youngster imagined the palette of fragrances awaiting him there, he clutched his cousin's waist side and suit coat as they zipped through the eerie labrynth of cobbled stone streets, piercing through the frequencies of war hardening history. The engine's motor was loud but could not entirely bury the roaring vibrations of echoing Heinkel bombers. Even their shadows could be pictured as they loomed over bygone buildings. Boarded shut from tresspassers and tme, sullied structures conveniently abandoned as monuments, forever tumbling into the annals of defeat. The twenty minute ride would take the duo past the city cemetary and over slim dirt roads, flanked on both sides by peaceful pastures, lush fields of forgiveness. As the perfume of bountiful berries grew more potent, the boy's mind would clear from the din and smoke below. In substitue, the light of youth, would resurge and usher him back to joyful faith and purpose, in Vladamir's garden, in the hills of the Ardenne, overlooking Sedan, where in May, 1940, the gardens of France were lost. E