I grew up in a house situated between two worlds. Every night I would climb into my wooden 1）bunk bed and whisper my prayers to the single star visible from my tiny window. Then I would crawl under the covers and wait.

Soon the sounds that signalled nightfall in our 2）semi-detached， red-brick house filled the air. From the room through the wall came the melody of an 3）acoustic guitar. From across the garden path and the alley separating our house from another one， came the familiar shriek of an angry Portuguese grandmother.

I would toss for hours on end， listening to the clashing melody of 4）twanging notes and foreign words.

I knew that my mother would call each of our neighbours requesting silence， and that when this failed she would 5）tramp outside in her nightgown to bang on their doors and demand peace and quiet. If we were lucky， there would be a couple of hours of silence. Then the sun would make an appearance， the birds would awake， and the noise of the neighbourhood would rise to a deafening 6）crescendo again.

In those days， before my mother became overworked and tired， and before my parents’divorce was final， we used to have a garden. Growing up， I truly believed that garden was magic.

My mother’s garden was as wild in spirit as she was. In the centre grew wild roses surrounded by crystals of 7）rose quartz. The 8）agrarian flowers and the 9）jagged stones were her most prized possessions. She planted bulbs every year and taught my brother and I how to do it. There were also sunflowers， which were planted on my request. I loved the 10）cyclopean plants that towered above my head like giants in my fairy tales.

Spring soon became my favourite season； the time when the 11）tulips bloomed， bulbs were brought out of the basement and planted and the 12）raspberries were ripe for picking. The Portuguese boys from next door would hop over the fence that separated our two backyards to help pick the raspberries before the birds could swoop in and steal them. I still prefer raspberries that way： warm and soft from the spring sun， right off the vine.

The boys would play in our garden for hours on end. We’d run through clouds of floral scent until our noses were overwhelmed. We’d roll around on the 13）lush， soft grass until our clothes were covered in 14）stains.

But our happiness， like most joys in the world， was shortlived.

When we heard their grandmother’s sharp voice pierce the air， as it always did without fail， the boys would jump right over the fence and into 15）oblivion. I would often sit on the highest point of my play structure and try to peer over the wall， but I was always too little to see into that other world， and thus it remained a secret to me.

I didn’t know what those boys endured at home， but of one thing I was sure： My mother’s garden was a 16）refuge， a place where my parents hugged one another instead of fighting， a place where children could be children.

On the other half of our semi was the Johnstons’ backyard. I was able to see into their world as their fence was low and had large gaps. Their garden was much different from my mother’s. The grass was neatly trimmed； it hadn’t been allowed to grow tall and wild and free. The children who lived there wore neat clothes that would never sport even the smallest grass stain or suggestion of any frolicking whatsoever. There were no roses or raspberry bushes， only 17）petunias and 18）mums. Though I was often invited by the girl who lived next door， I had decided early on that that garden was not a place I wanted to venture.

I used to wonder what the other children thought of my family when they came to play in our garden. Did they notice that my father was hardly present， or that my mother spent most of her time alone among the tall plants she had caused to blossom？

Though I was fascinated by the worlds in which the other two children lived， I often wished I could escape my own. Our garden became that escape for me， the Narnia at the back of my wardrobe.

When the place I was supposed to call home became filled with sounds that were even less pleasant than the off-key strumming of guitar strings and angry shrieks in Portuguese， I headed into the garden to find peace.

During the days of my young life in which nothing seemed to make sense， it became a place filled with nothing but happy memories for me.

When my father left， I still had the first sunflower I had planted with him.

When my mother 19）chastised me， I had the chives that she often cooked with to munch on.

When my brother was born and the adult world seemed to deny my existence， I had the neighbourhood children for company.

And at night， when the noise of the neighbourhood kept me up， I wished that our humble house was filled with noise instead of the deadening silence that brought the awareness to all of us that one member of our family was missing.

我在一所處于兩個世界之間的屋子里長大。每一晚，我爬上我那張木制雙層床，朝著小窗戶外的那顆唯一可見的星星，輕聲禱告。接著，我便會蜷縮進被窩里，靜靜等候。

不用多久，各種聲音響徹空中，標志著夜晚降臨在我們那座半獨立式紅磚屋之上。墻另一邊的房間里傳來了悠揚的木吉他聲。而隔開我們家和隔壁家的花園小徑和小巷那頭，則傳來一位憤怒的葡萄牙奶奶那慣常的尖叫聲。

我會接連幾個小時輾轉反側，聽著這混合了吉他弦聲和異國語言的不協(xié)調的旋律。

我知道母親會打電話給每一位鄰居，要求他們停止噪音干擾，而當電話投訴沒用時，她就會穿著睡衣，踏著重步走出去敲他們的門，強烈要求他們安靜下來。如果走運，我們會得到幾小時的安寧。接著，太陽升起，鳥兒醒來，鄰里的嘈雜聲又會再次漸漸上升到震耳欲聾的境界。

在那些年里，母親無須過度操勞，沒有疲憊不堪，而我父母也尚未離婚，我們還擁有一個花園。從小以來，我真心相信那個花園蘊藏著魔法。

母親的花園和她的心靈一樣自在不羈?；▓@的中心種著野玫瑰，玫瑰四周被粉晶所環(huán)繞。這些栽種的花兒和鋸齒狀的晶石，是母親最珍視的財產。每一年，她都會種下一些球根，并教我和弟弟怎么種植?；▓@里還種了向日葵，那是我要求種下的。我喜歡這些巨型的植物，它們長得比我的個頭還高，就像童話故事里的巨人一般。

春天很快就成了我最鐘愛的季節(jié)；那個時節(jié)，郁金香盛放，地下室里的球根會被取出并種下，覆盆子也早已成熟，待人采摘。隔壁的葡萄牙男孩們會躍過隔開我們兩家后院的圍欄，幫助我們趕在鳥兒乘虛而入搶食果實之前采摘覆盆子。我依舊更喜歡這樣的覆盆子：剛從藤上摘下，被春日陽光烘曬得既溫暖又柔軟。

男孩們會在我們家的花園里玩上好幾個小時。我們會在一陣陣的花香中奔跑，直到鼻子都被花香熏得受不了。我們也會在青蔥柔軟的草地上打滾，直到衣服沾滿泥漬。

然而我們的幸福時光，如世界上絕大多數(shù)的歡樂一樣，稍縱即逝。

當我們聽到他們的奶奶那尖銳的嗓音刺穿空氣時——每回如是，男孩們就會跳過柵欄，消失無影。我時常會坐在我那小滑梯的最高點，試圖瞥過墻的另一邊，可是我個頭太小，總是看不到那邊的世界，因此那于我而言一直是個謎。

我不知道那些男孩回到家會吃到什么苦頭，但是有一件事情我可以肯定：母親的花園是一個避風港，在那里，我父母會相擁對方而非互相爭吵；在那里，小孩能真正像個小孩。

我們那座半獨立房屋的另一邊是約翰斯頓一家的后院。他們家的圍欄很低，空隙也大，因此我得以一睹他們的世界。他們家的花園與我母親的花園截然不同。草地被整齊地修剪過，草兒不允許長高，也不可能瘋長。里面的孩子們穿戴整潔，從不會因玩耍而沾染上哪怕是最細微的草漬，衣物上也沒顯示出任何嬉戲打鬧的跡象。那里沒有玫瑰或者覆盆子草叢，只有矮牽?；ê途栈?。雖然我常常收到隔壁家女孩的邀請，可我早已認定，那個花園并非我想去一探究竟之處。

我過去常常想，其他過來我們家花園玩耍的孩子是怎么看我們家的呢？他們發(fā)現(xiàn)了我父親幾乎從不在家嗎？他們是否發(fā)現(xiàn)，我母親大多數(shù)時間都獨自一人，穿梭在她一手培育、傲然盛放的高大植物之間呢？

雖然我對另外兩個孩子所生活的世界癡癡著迷，我卻時常希望能逃離自己所處的世界。我們的花園成了我避世之地，是我衣櫥背后的“納尼亞”。

當那個我稱之為家的地方充滿了比那跑調的吉他聲和憤怒的葡萄牙語尖叫聲更讓人不悅的聲音時，我就會跑進花園尋找安寧。

在我年少的歲月里，似乎沒有一件事情是有意義的，而我家的花園卻成了一個對我來說只有歡樂回憶的地方。

當父親離開時，我還擁有和他一起種下的第一株向日葵。

當母親懲罰我時，我還能大口大口地咀嚼那些她常常用來炒菜的香蔥。

當我弟弟出生，成人的世界似乎在否認我的存在時，我還有鄰里的孩子們給我做伴。

而到了晚上，當鄰里的嘈雜聲讓我無法入眠時，我期許我們簡陋的屋子里充滿的是嘈雜聲而非死一般的寂靜，這寂靜讓我們每一個人都禁不住記起我們家少了一個人。