⌉|⌈ – Arboretum

                Days are colder. Men stroll with long coats and laden heads, guarded from the rain, women grip their catatonic hearts, gazing into their reflections on the sultry train windows. I don’t remember the last time I cried. I’d swear I’ve seen sunlight in the past few weeks, but such memory escapes me. The Summer that just evaded is now another distant shard, and somehow, I remember my nineteenth Summer with more clarity, than I do that which just passed. 

                 Kids are still as radiant as heat itself, seasons aren’t seasons to them, but simply a permeable haze that hovers through; it doesn’t weigh on them, little weighs on them, little weighed on me when I was a child. I remember when I ceased being a child, the very day, down to the very second. I was thirteen, marked by a shortness that would take its time to grow, and a coal-black hair coated with gel and pumped up, like a porcupine, which would become my nickname throughout those years (Ouriço, in popular Portuguese). It was the fifteenth of May, I know the date as I know my palm, as it was the day to visit the Arboretum with my class of petulant boys. The morning extended, as my stomach rattled with excitement, almost an effusion that I’ve ever rarely felt since. Eargerness, perhaps, in contrast with present-day anxiety, with the only distinctive factor being that of willingness to do, rather than drainage by the thought. The rains of May were barely settling, but enough for the condensation to fill the in-betweens of the bus-glasses, creating this pendular effect, water bouncing and mixing with more drops, and drops fusing, dancing, consuming other drops and tracing more paths, akin to the roots of a tree. The clouds transitioned like foreign passengers, and for small minutes, they would eat the Sun, and then spit it back up, so it could warm entire lands, entire fronts and hands and wrists. 

           We had arrived. The rattling became ever-so rattling, the heart pumped with pleasure, almost sensuous pleasure before such semantics plagued the mind, before innocence was as violent a word as banality now is. Before I knew to grip my heart and pray for it to lay serene, I would just let it beat, beat away, because there was brightness in each beat. There is still brightness in its beat, just, perhaps, a little faded and distant. 

               The Botanical Garden didn’t have a built entrance, but instead, a series of gates with discarded vases and abandoned plants. We were meant to simply go in and enjoy, as the paths of cobblestone warped like varying horizons — to a mind of a child, of course. I’ve gone back to visit the lilies each year since, and now, they are merely cobblestone paths with no true sense to their design, they merely happened to be there, as most paths, without much additional logic than to go from here to there. Still, I do recall my youthful magics trying to enchant those paths to last, or rather, begging them to last. They didn’t last. 

               I was, perhaps, one of the few children interested in the plants, and I had taken special interest in their latin names, unsure on why they poked my mind so dearly, like thorns of a Rosaceae. There were poisonous plants, and they appeared especially enticing, as if the vile of their poison was meant for you alone to endure it, and such vile was the toll of contemplating their beautiful displays of colour and form. There were trees, far too many to count, and some unveiled almost in shapes of adults, like the Baobabs and their huge bellies, or the Willows and their disheveled hairs, and Yews whose trunks were deformed enough for a small child to fit between them (and fit, I did). When Time struck for lunch, we all gathered at the core of the Garden, near the window-palace, home of the most delicate little greens. I’d cease the opportunity to escape after the count, and stealthily (a child-level of stealth, as in, everyone can see you, but they aren’t really paying much attention, so you feel like a true-born spymaster) run into the North side of the Gardens. 

                 A little ways past the small pond filled with mallards, there is a muffle of white-lilies, perhaps the most common you could find if you hiked through an oak forest. I remember it all, even the sounds — a recorder, perhaps, is what I am above all. I kneeled by the lilies and leered them through and through, and I could feel them speak to me, although not make up fully what they transmitted, and I recall my heart sinking into my chest like a cold boulder, my eyes widening, and a cry — not a whimper or a wail, not even a lament, a merest cry, a couple tears shed silently and without expression, almost as if half of them fell within, into an invisible, placid pond of emeraldrine mallards. My father had died two years prior, and I’d recall his death, and they spoke of him, but said almost nothing, with each stuttered syllable becoming a spear thrusting into the aerial arms of childhood that cocooned me, until it was completely stripped of me, or I of it, or both. 

                To this day, I do not know why that was, or how it came to be. I’ve felt lonelier since with each passing Summer, and by each, I return to that Garden and whichever lilies it holds, and I look for him. Unsure if I’m searching for my father, or for my child, or both. I believe to still not hold the words to describe what the demand is, and by being a recorder, I’m also bound to be a describer, and each year since I’ve brought the descriptions of all the beauty I can still sight beyond those lillies, my etchings and poems and notes, and I kiss the forehead of that boy still-wandering the gardens, still feeling the chill of the ponds and gazing at latin descriptions. Still smiling into those lilies. I give it all to him, as my words beget new plants for him to see, for him to feel eager about. I give it all to him, so he may know I still live a beauty worth living, and yet, incomparable to his. I don’t know why this is, or how this came to be. But I’m at peace with it. 


Published by João-Maria

A tick clinging to the bristles of a purple boar.

27 thoughts on “⌉|⌈ – Arboretum

  1. I’m glad you have found your peace. This: “Unsure if I’m searching for my father, or for my child, or both.” speaks to all of us searching for that glorified, elusive past that can hinder our present and keep peace at arm’s length. Beautifully delivered too, as if it is an offering to that boy, that father, and all those still seeking.

    Liked by 2 people

      1. I feel if one is an accomplished poet like yourself, then he will naturally excel in writing prose, so long as he’s not trying to be someone he’s not. Stick to the truth, it’s the best literature:)

        Liked by 2 people

    1. My pleasure, Ellie. Your compliments are also part of the textured petals of beauty I bring for him to leer upon. And that is, perhaps, just another way of saying they’re beautiful to me, as well.
      Thank you ❤


  2. This is a love song. So lyrical. It reflects my favorite season of Summer and mood of nostalgia, a longing for the puer aeternus. Your reminiscence made me think of the Garden of Eden. Would you say the emotion you are expressing is one of saudade?

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I suppose I never thought of it as any specific Garden beyond the Botanical Garden in Lisbon, where this elapsed. Perhaps a grand metaphor for something-other, but — and quite ironically, as my Art is that of poetry — I’ve never been too great at devising metaphors.
      Saudade, oh, how I ache for that word when I write in English; Everything could be so easily condensed into that word, inasmuch as I’m sure entire works of literature wouldn’t exist in parallel with it, and many others, directly from it. But I am Portuguese above all, and to that, one might say Saudade envelops and describes mostly everything I’ve ever written. The word is embedded in my blood, and the emotion, branded into my soul.

      Liked by 1 person

  3. O meu inglês é deplorável comparado com o teu, nos teus poemas. Consegui ler esta prosa, de mais fácil acesso. Senti tristeza quando li, mas gostei.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Sou complacente em publicações portuguesas, um tanto mais porque quem me lê, e quem por mim se interessa — normalmente — são mais familiares com o Inglês. Mea culpa, saúdo a escrita Portuguesa acima de qualquer outra, e figuro a nosso língua como a mais bonita que conheço.
      Deplorável, na verdade, acredito ser essa complacência em que me encontro.
      O texto é um pouco triste, mas é aquela tristeza fastidiosa, quase fadista, de quem chora uma saudade que sente falta de si mesma. Saudade da própria saudade, uns diriam, num reforço pleonástico quase tão bonito quanto funesto.
      Agradeço-te, do fundo do meu ser, teres comentado. É muito importante para mim; um resquício de interesse por parte de qualquer compatriota, toca-me muito, e toca-me fundo.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. O sentimento é mútuo. É sempre bom ter uma reacção por alguém, especialmente do nosso país.


  4. This really struck me
    ‘I’ve felt lonelier since with each passing Summer, and by each, I return to that Garden and whichever lilies it holds, and I look for him. Unsure if I’m searching for my father, or for my child, or both.‘
    Beautifully captured.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Shosannah; you’re very generous in commenting, it means much.
      It is hard to imagine peace without stillness, and although this demand is perpetual in nature, one must succumb to that very same nature of finding a placid rock midst the mires of absurdity.
      It is absurd to look for him, but damn, it is also so peaceful.
      May you ever find yourself in a similar issue, take solace in knowing that I, too, have found that solace.
      And thank you much, for the kindness.


  5. What brilliant writing Jhonny, you steal a beat of heart with this. Pure nostalgia but so vividly you portrayed the sadness, the imagination of the young little boy( you) reeling from the los of father. Everything is so magical so live in his imagination. Loved it I’ve frlt loneliness since with each passing summer …

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Your comment made an interesting assessment I hadn’t seen before; that of the boy being external, and thus, eternally singular.
      It isn’t me anymore, and I’m not him. Certainly, I hold a bit of him, like he held a bit of me.
      The gears of my mind are turning, I must put it to paper, thank you Tanya!


    1. Means the world, coming from you, Simon; as you are one of the poets I most admire in this platform. Your writing is, and always has been, beyond the stratosphere. I dream of achieving your levels.


  6. so painfully and strikingly beautiful, johnny. every time i return to your work after a hiatus, i lament my own neglect…you are truly a “describer,” so poignantly perfect in your choice of words.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Oh Mariah, I’m just jubilant to see you return. I understand life may be a rumble; Mine has been too, and I’ve been achingly exhausted, but I wouldn’t be Johnny without some writings here and there.
      I’m very glad each time you come, it feels like home again, y’know? You were one of my first connections of those ethereal times of initial publication, and a huge promoter of my impetus to write. I shall never forget that debt.
      Thank you so much.

      Liked by 1 person

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