it's been 8 years since i've moved, she thought. 8 years. sometimes they were decades, other times they were a bright twirling second. she did the math again in her head..just to be sure..yes, 8 years. so much has happened, and yet so little. she opened the double doors that lead to the garden, paused at the top of the wooden stairs. everything was dripping with the fresh rain. the roses were blooming and shriveled up flowers she had thought were weeds had sprouted up, peeking from underneath the rose shrubs timidly, not quite sure what to make of this new world. that's great, she thought. no need to water the plants. farmer thoughts. wanting it to rain to avoid this tedious routine of everyday watering. the streets were empty, the decks were empty, and she wondered why none of the neighbours were ever sitting outside underneath their 200 year old trees. they have these solid ancient trees in their backyards, and perfectly mowed grass..i'm the only one who sits in my garden, she thought. although puzzling, it was a relief. she could sit unfettered, talk unfettered, stare into whatever spot of space she fancied, unfettered. she stared at the computer screen. she had to write about her experience as a foreigner here, it was for some article that was to be published back home. there were many things she wanted to say, but really, she never felt like a foreigner here. well maybe a few times. she looked at the red crowned bird perched on her hammock, waiting for a plump drop of water to fall onto his open beak..that's what life felt like sometimes here..like she was waiting for that drop of water..she could see it growing, acquiring momentum, collecting, balancing, almost falling, but no..she typed a few sentences, and then she found the words flowing, they were pouring out of her soul..she really liked this city, this country. she had found this irrational need lately to defend this city like it was her own, to unmask its albeit jagged edges and reveal the raw, deeply ornate character underneath.