A Childhood of Solitude

Since I was little I have inhabited solitude as if it were a house with too many rooms. I had no siblings or close cousins; my games were windows opening onto a patio that, through my child’s eyes, seemed endless. The black gate at the far edge of the yard stood like a protector, holding the world at a distance. Having such a vast patio and a gate to guard it made me feel safe, and for a child who grew up like I did, that safety was everything.

Very rarely did I feel fear. Solitude taught me early on that it could be a refuge, that it could be an invisible shield. On the days when I escaped the tower, the garden became the stage of small epics. The side path, with its damp bricks covered in moss, greeted me with the freshness of a town at sea level. There I picked lemons and let the thorns scratch my skin, wounds that reminded me I was alive.

The back garden was different, more private, more secretive. There was not much to do there, but its hiddenness was enough. I walked back and forth, draping myself with old sheets, and stayed for long stretches, as if simple presence was already an adventure. What I loved most was the passage between the two gardens, that crossing that felt like a ritual, a kind of rebirth. I wore long nightgowns and in those crossings I felt transformed, sometimes tired, sometimes dirty with earth, always different.

I gathered stones and drenched them in water to see their colors grow more vivid. I struck stone against stone, convinced that someday a precious nugget would appear in my hands. They were stones carried from the nearest river, relics of a place I had never seen. I turned the faucet and let torrents of water escape, drenching my dress, soaking the earth at my feet, offering drink to the plants as if I held dominion over the rain.

The side garden always welcomed me like a kingdom of secrets. Bougainvillea climbed shamelessly along the walls, and mangos would sometimes fall with a dry thud onto the floor. I pressed my hands against the rough tree trunks, trying to sense the sentiments they held. Among the branches I saw hummingbirds suspended in the air, so fast they seemed like mirages, and birds singing in languages I longed to understand. I listened as if they were emissaries from a hidden world, one that existed only for me.

Butterflies landed on my feet as though they recognized me, ants marched in solemn procession carving paths in the grass, beetles shone like precious stones beneath the sun. I invented stories for all of them. The butterfly was a royal messenger, the ants were disciplined soldiers, and the beetles guarded treasures buried beneath the earth. The garden was my court, my jungle, my stage. And I, in my long nightgowns, became queen, adventurer, and sorceress all at once.

That is how I learned to enjoy my solitude. Not as absence but as fertile territory, a country of my own. A childhood of gates, towers, damp gardens, and secret crossings taught me that to be alone can also mean to be accompanied by a world that recognizes you as its own.