Ladybird bush
I remember a bush — some hardy shrub all finger-twigs and muted green. In its ornate pot it must have stood as tall as me — all of 2 and a bit feet. It teemed with ladybirds — hundreds. Each with seven black spots on shiny crimson.
It was a mild, clear- day. The bush stood in grandma’s front yard. Or was it the back? A small secluded patio enclosed by hedges — somewhere I didn’t spend much time. Inside was such a loving place.
In this part-memory or fabricated dream, I’m alone. But those ladybirds still seem real to me — bright busy buttons catching the sun.
There was no traffic. No breeze. Just the patio, the hedges, the bush, and those ladybirds: a tiny fleeting perfect universe with edges fading to beigey nothing. A boat in an empty sea without an anchor to place or time.
I look at my daughter, so fascinated by everything. What will be her ladybird bushes? How will those memories fracture in time?