Only very few people know the old castle and the garden behind the castle is long forgotten. But in the village one still tells the story of the old lady, sitting on the same place for more than hundred years, reading in the same book, looking at the same page. The ivy grew over the lady and the book, so maybe she can’t read anymore but guess a single character there or reach for the end of a verb. Sometimes when the wind is blowing through the ivy and reaches the book, the pages are turned over, but the very old lady does not care very much. She just sits there, searching for the end of a sentence, never spoken in the beginning.
I still can see my grandmother many, many years later sitting in a chair under the old pear tree in her garden, where never a castle stood, with a book on her knees, staring for hours at the very same page, no one was able to reach her within these hours, not the wind, not me trying to show her a flower I had never seen before or a snail I found within the strawberry bed. The telephone could ring, she would not get up, not the ringing bell at the door could disturb her in these hours, where she got lost not in the book but in the memories, that were unescapable strong.
Today, the garden of my grandmother does not exist any more, my grandmother is long dead, the pear tree was chopped down by the new owners, as well as the gigantic hazelnut, the rose hedges, the flower beds and also the strawberries left for a new car parking space. No one sits anymore in the garden, and only very few people know the old village and the old garden behind the gates of the castle, where a very old lady sits, turned into stone, overgrown with ivy, not able to turn the pages or to escape the memories.