On The Four O'Clock Patch

Walk Softly

There is a garden in every childhood, an enchanted place 
where colors are brighter, the air softer, and the morning
 more fragrant than ever again. - Elizabeth Lawrence

Is it four o'clock yet? I narrow my eyes as I whisper in Cousin Susan's ears.

Where are you going? Maid Pining says gruffly. My accomplice in the present escapade and I exchange glances. Out to play, we say matter-of-factly.

Walk softly. Mind my a las cuarto bush! She looks irritable, her tone clearly indicating she doesn't intend to elaborate. But she has guessed correctly. We continue with unflagging vigor toward the flower patch.

The four o'clock, or a las cuarto plant, as it is called in the vernacular, blooms according to changes in light and temperature, usually between four and eight pm, or a bit earlier on cloudy afternoons. We're bent on catching its seeds at the appointed time for our pretend beans for cooking. 

Hoy! Leave my flowers alone. Disapproval draws together her slanted brows. Of course, we don't heed her plea. She's too busy anyway to check on us.

We expertly traverse a line of small-leafed weeds, their tiny yellow flowers peeping through. Red gumamela and carnations are showing their heads, nestled in beside the wild-growing primrose. Bright-orange bird of paradise stalks proudly flutter against the wood fence. Pipit birds keep dipping in and out of a corn husk feeder hung from a mango tree branch. A flash of red, then gold. The flutter of wings, the distant sound of coos. Every part of the garden seems to have a sturdiness about it, even with its quiet grace.

We catch a whiff of the fragrant four o'clock, both lemony and sweet. I can see an abundant spray of trumpet-shaped gold and red buds opening in the shade of the papaya tree. Gingerly, we pluck their bulgy black seeds. Beside me, a frog belches suddenly, absurdly. We turn and go back across the way we have come.

Hala! Did you trample my flower bed again? Aling Pining continues to probe, looking us up and down suspiciously. No, we lie, as always. 

The garden has been the loyal keeper of our secret. It has the stillness of a tableau, the golden glow of nostalgia. It whispers, never shouts.

It leads us down the stretch of budding shrubs where everything is seemingly seen, yet hidden.