SOLITUDE and DEATH of a Garden

I went out, moved down the stairs to the courtyard. I first went into the bakery room, and then to the hayloft, they were all the same. Even my old shoes resting under the stairs were lying at exactly the same place where I left. I ran to the garden to see if there was a change. Only the medlar, a small bushy tree of the rose family that bears small brown, apple like fruits, didn’t shed its leaves. Hairy leaves of the medlar were about to become red within a month or so. They would also fall, and leave the tree barren naked. Harsh winter would cover it up, hide out its naked body, and treat it warm with its white gown so that they would blossom more powerfully in the spring. But shedding always makes me remember the yellow barrenness of autumn. The barren trees were in tune with the sense of desolation all around. Desolation would in turn make me remember death. Why would we then sarcastically long for winter? The grayish brown bark of medlar was right underneath the kitchen porthole. Its round and white inner frame was surrounded by a wide ring or flange of some dark material, and had a short twine connected it to the flange. It would stay up there as if it would one day pour off all its content over medlar. But by one of the highest branches of medlar perched a lonesome owl observing everything around medlar day and night. It would make an unusual sound at nights just like crying, flew over the windows hastily as though it had attacked them or warn medlar about the coming of the things over it through the porthole. This corner of the garden for me was the place of solitude. My tranquil gaze wandered in the garden.