Achtertuin

We gather in the achtertuin of each other’s minds, my friends and I. Ahmed’s rolled in from Terry. Charles and Val have put off Vermont. We congregate on terraces and in backyards to wander the pathways of the gardens we’ve cultivated. In conversation, Charles is a southpaw with a high-kick and an exaggerated lean back. An anecdote is an eephus, slow-winding into the catcher’s mitt and you’re scratching your head saying “huh.” Val’s mind is unexampled grace yet she is not too lofty for body comedy. She mimics an Everglade deer with a touch of Walk Like An Egyptian. Ahmed is still a freshman, albeit white-coated and shorn of the mass of his youthful folly.

Our achtertuins will remain secret for now. But know this: as the evening winds down I recall a rainy afternoon in Aartselaar. Felix, Emiel and I are in Oma’s kitchen and fat Ramon is in the annex. Oma’s garden is impeccable. But there’s a hole in the hedge. The ditch is swollen with runoff. And all we need to do is duck low and pass through and then leap and we’re in the nettles and then we’re out and we’re free and the world is the garden and we three kleine rakkers can roam.