The wind is blowing in my hair. I close my eyes, and feel the gentle breeze on my face. The pink flowers of the cherry tree are slowly falling to the ground, flying in the air. The wind whispers through the leaves, I can hear the crickets in the grass... The old swing, attached to the strongest branch, is gently moving. I can hear my grandma's steps, as she walks through her garden and enjoys the sun which is softly warming her back. I open my eyes again. Pussycat, the small kitten who is discovering the outside world, is rubbing herself against my leg, purring, and looking at me with her deep green eyes. Cats have a way of comforting you with just one look. It is so easy to lose oneself in those warming eyes… They don’t smile, they don’t talk; But they seem to tell you that everything is alright, that no one will hurt you. That they will always be there to protect you. And when you sit all night long in your bed, crying they’re coming for me, it’s nice to have someone tell you that.
I take the kitty on my lap, and start swinging, but she quickly jumps off, as she hates the swaying movement of the wooden swing. As I run after her, I end up on the ground, laying in the grass with her on my stomach, purring even louder. My grandma joins me, and for a moment, we just look at the sky, not saying a word, listening to Pussycat purring. And everything is alright; and I know that no matter what, no one will hurt me with those two around.
I always loved playing in my grandma’s garden. The big cherry tree that I couldn’t manage to climb used to become a magic tower. The grass became a sea, and the swing, a boat. The little enclosure where she kept her turtles suddenly was a tropical island. My brother and my cousins were my companions, and we would sail away after breakfast, stop for lunch, and come back to port for dinner. And even in winter, our boat would still sail through the ice and the snow.
But year after year, the cherry tree got older and older. One day, it was too fragile to hold the swing, which was put in the attic and forgotten. The cat died, and even if he was replaced with another one, none were able to give me that warming feeling with just one look. The turtles became less and less interesting. They would mainly spend their days in the shade, where we couldn’t see them. And my grandma? She’s dying. And no matter how hard we try to forget that, I know that I will never be able to lie next to her in her garden, looking at the sky and listening to the cat purring. And I now know that she will never always be there to protect me. No one will.