Scorched Temple

There was a garden inside her of overgrown grass and uneven walking paths floating over thick mangrove roots and mud puddles. The mud water rippled where the ocean tide swept in to dance with fresh water from her deceased grandmother's forest. The creatures hiding in these soft waves were not scary. Neither were the creatures in the trees. They were all part of the garden, and the garden was her.

Along her path of grasses, brackish mud and tree roots lay rocky outcroppings like temples. They marked life's memories, in no apparent order. She collected flowers along her way that she might use to decorate them as she passed. This temple was the one that hurt. This one came with joy. This one had crumbled and she barely recalled its origins, but perhaps the memory was sad and maybe it had fallen because she did not want to keep it. Sometimes a temple blocked the path, or its falling rocks pushed her to sea to drown--that was the only thing she was scared of here--and she would learn to move boulders out of her way until the temple was planted in its place in her garden, where she could tend to it, learn from it, heal from it.

She was generally free to explore, allowing for the occasional moments of caution. There was a blackened temple in the water, wrapped with winding mangrove roots, that she approached rarely, or she may lose her footing. It had swept her to sea more than once now, and with it she felt immense grief but she could not, for the life of her, recall why. She would prefer it gone. She had no need for it. No memory to keep. No lesson to learn. But still, it stood.

Her mind’s garden was large and the path was long and winding. She saw its beauty. It's bright and deep colors. She smelled its musk and fresh brine. Along its edges, grandmother's forest birds called from a time when the forest blossomed. She had made all of it hers. Hers to remember. Hers to keep. Her garden temples, too, were hers. They were hers to smile at. Hers to heal from. She was an adult, and already had decades of memories living within her. They were even hers to destroy and forget, if for the best.

But the blackened temple in the water, scorch marked almost as if burned, and wrapped with the winding mangrove roots, still stood. It filled her with untold sorrow whenever she dared pass.

The garden may be herself and hers, but this temple was hers to avoid.

Author’s note: Thank you for reading my draft! I have a place for it in my current work in progress, which explores memories and the price of forgetting. Photo is my own.