No secret garden, this, shut with the entrance covered and waiting for someone to rip off the ivy and break open the door. I never wanted to do that; preserving an ideal that never was would get me nowhere. So I waited until I could look at the flowers without crying, until I could see the beauty of the roses and vines, until the paths and benches no longer bore any trace of my presence. And then I gently shut the gate and walked away.
And I have never once walked back. So how am I now standing at the gate, wondering at the weeds that choke the roses?