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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.
我在一所处于两个世界之间的屋子里长大。每一晚，我爬上我那张木制双层床，朝着小窗户外的那颗唯一可见的星星，轻声祷告。接着，我便会蜷缩进被窝里，静静等候。
不用多久，各种声音响彻空中，标志着夜晚降临在我们那座半独立式红砖屋之上。墙另一边的房间里传来了悠扬的木吉他声。而隔开我们家和隔壁家的花园小径和小巷那头，则传来一位愤怒的葡萄牙奶奶那惯常的尖叫声。
我会接连几个小时辗转反侧，听着这混合了吉他弦声和异国语言的不协调的旋律。 我知道母亲会打电话给每一位邻居，要求他们停止噪音干扰，而当电话投诉没用时，她就会穿着睡衣，踏着重步走出去敲他们的门，强烈要求他们安静下来。如果走运，我们会得到几小时的安宁。接着，太阳升起，鸟儿醒来，邻里的嘈杂声又会再次渐渐上升到震耳欲聋的境界。
在那些年里，母亲无须过度操劳，没有疲惫不堪，而我父母也尚未离婚，我们还拥有一个花园。从小以来，我真心相信那个花园蕴藏着魔法。
母亲的花园和她的心灵一样自在不羁。花园的中心种着野玫瑰，玫瑰四周被粉晶所环绕。这些栽种的花儿和锯齿状的晶石，是母亲最珍视的财产。每一年，她都会种下一些球根，并教我和弟弟怎么种植。花园里还种了向日葵，那是我要求种下的。我喜欢这些巨型的植物，它们长得比我的个头还高，就像童话故事里的巨人一般。
春天很快就成了我最钟爱的季节；那个时节，郁金香盛放，地下室里的球根会被取出并种下，覆盆子也早已成熟，待人采摘。隔壁的葡萄牙男孩们会跃过隔开我们两家后院的围栏，帮助我们赶在鸟儿乘虚而入抢食果实之前采摘覆盆子。我依旧更喜欢这样的覆盆子：刚从藤上摘下，被春日阳光烘晒得既温暖又柔软。
男孩们会在我们家的花园里玩上好几个小时。我们会在一阵阵的花香中奔跑，直到鼻子都被花香熏得受不了。我们也会在青葱柔软的草地上打滚，直到衣服沾满泥渍。
然而我们的幸福时光，如世界上绝大多数的欢乐一样，稍纵即逝。
当我们听到他们的奶奶那尖锐的嗓音刺穿空气时——每回如是，男孩们就会跳过栅栏，消失无影。我时常会坐在我那小滑梯的最高点，试图瞥过墙的另一边，可是我个头太小，总是看不到那边的世界，因此那于我而言一直是个谜。
我不知道那些男孩回到家会吃到什么苦头，但是有一件事情我可以肯定：母亲的花园是一个避风港，在那里，我父母会相拥对方而非互相争吵；在那里，小孩能真正像个小孩。
我们那座半独立房屋的另一边是约翰斯顿一家的后院。他们家的围栏很低，空隙也大，因此我得以一睹他们的世界。他们家的花园与我母亲的花园截然不同。草地被整齐地修剪过，草儿不允许长高，也不可能疯长。里面的孩子们穿戴整洁，从不会因玩耍而沾染上哪怕是最细微的草渍，衣物上也没显示出任何嬉戏打闹的迹象。那里没有玫瑰或者覆盆子草丛，只有矮牵牛花和菊花。虽然我常常收到隔壁家女孩的邀请，可我早已认定，那个花园并非我想去一探究竟之处。
我过去常常想，其他过来我们家花园玩耍的孩子是怎么看我们家的呢？他们发现了我父亲几乎从不在家吗？他们是否发现，我母亲大多数时间都独自一人，穿梭在她一手培育、傲然盛放的高大植物之间呢？
虽然我对另外两个孩子所生活的世界痴痴着迷，我却时常希望能逃离自己所处的世界。我们的花园成了我避世之地，是我衣橱背后的“纳尼亚”。
当那个我称之为家的地方充满了比那跑调的吉他声和愤怒的葡萄牙语尖叫声更让人不悦的声音时，我就会跑进花园寻找安宁。
在我年少的岁月里，似乎没有一件事情是有意义的，而我家的花园却成了一个对我来说只有欢乐回忆的地方。
当父亲离开时，我还拥有和他一起种下的第一株向日葵。
当母亲惩罚我时，我还能大口大口地咀嚼那些她常常用来炒菜的香葱。
当我弟弟出生，成人的世界似乎在否认我的存在时，我还有邻里的孩子们给我做伴。
而到了晚上，当邻里的嘈杂声让我无法入眠时，我期许我们简陋的屋子里充满的是嘈杂声而非死一般的寂静，这寂静让我们每一个人都禁不住记起我们家少了一个人。
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.
我在一所处于两个世界之间的屋子里长大。每一晚，我爬上我那张木制双层床，朝着小窗户外的那颗唯一可见的星星，轻声祷告。接着，我便会蜷缩进被窝里，静静等候。
不用多久，各种声音响彻空中，标志着夜晚降临在我们那座半独立式红砖屋之上。墙另一边的房间里传来了悠扬的木吉他声。而隔开我们家和隔壁家的花园小径和小巷那头，则传来一位愤怒的葡萄牙奶奶那惯常的尖叫声。
我会接连几个小时辗转反侧，听着这混合了吉他弦声和异国语言的不协调的旋律。 我知道母亲会打电话给每一位邻居，要求他们停止噪音干扰，而当电话投诉没用时，她就会穿着睡衣，踏着重步走出去敲他们的门，强烈要求他们安静下来。如果走运，我们会得到几小时的安宁。接着，太阳升起，鸟儿醒来，邻里的嘈杂声又会再次渐渐上升到震耳欲聋的境界。
在那些年里，母亲无须过度操劳，没有疲惫不堪，而我父母也尚未离婚，我们还拥有一个花园。从小以来，我真心相信那个花园蕴藏着魔法。
母亲的花园和她的心灵一样自在不羁。花园的中心种着野玫瑰，玫瑰四周被粉晶所环绕。这些栽种的花儿和锯齿状的晶石，是母亲最珍视的财产。每一年，她都会种下一些球根，并教我和弟弟怎么种植。花园里还种了向日葵，那是我要求种下的。我喜欢这些巨型的植物，它们长得比我的个头还高，就像童话故事里的巨人一般。
春天很快就成了我最钟爱的季节；那个时节，郁金香盛放，地下室里的球根会被取出并种下，覆盆子也早已成熟，待人采摘。隔壁的葡萄牙男孩们会跃过隔开我们两家后院的围栏，帮助我们赶在鸟儿乘虚而入抢食果实之前采摘覆盆子。我依旧更喜欢这样的覆盆子：刚从藤上摘下，被春日阳光烘晒得既温暖又柔软。
男孩们会在我们家的花园里玩上好几个小时。我们会在一阵阵的花香中奔跑，直到鼻子都被花香熏得受不了。我们也会在青葱柔软的草地上打滚，直到衣服沾满泥渍。
然而我们的幸福时光，如世界上绝大多数的欢乐一样，稍纵即逝。
当我们听到他们的奶奶那尖锐的嗓音刺穿空气时——每回如是，男孩们就会跳过栅栏，消失无影。我时常会坐在我那小滑梯的最高点，试图瞥过墙的另一边，可是我个头太小，总是看不到那边的世界，因此那于我而言一直是个谜。
我不知道那些男孩回到家会吃到什么苦头，但是有一件事情我可以肯定：母亲的花园是一个避风港，在那里，我父母会相拥对方而非互相争吵；在那里，小孩能真正像个小孩。
我们那座半独立房屋的另一边是约翰斯顿一家的后院。他们家的围栏很低，空隙也大，因此我得以一睹他们的世界。他们家的花园与我母亲的花园截然不同。草地被整齐地修剪过，草儿不允许长高，也不可能疯长。里面的孩子们穿戴整洁，从不会因玩耍而沾染上哪怕是最细微的草渍，衣物上也没显示出任何嬉戏打闹的迹象。那里没有玫瑰或者覆盆子草丛，只有矮牵牛花和菊花。虽然我常常收到隔壁家女孩的邀请，可我早已认定，那个花园并非我想去一探究竟之处。
我过去常常想，其他过来我们家花园玩耍的孩子是怎么看我们家的呢？他们发现了我父亲几乎从不在家吗？他们是否发现，我母亲大多数时间都独自一人，穿梭在她一手培育、傲然盛放的高大植物之间呢？
虽然我对另外两个孩子所生活的世界痴痴着迷，我却时常希望能逃离自己所处的世界。我们的花园成了我避世之地，是我衣橱背后的“纳尼亚”。
当那个我称之为家的地方充满了比那跑调的吉他声和愤怒的葡萄牙语尖叫声更让人不悦的声音时，我就会跑进花园寻找安宁。
在我年少的岁月里，似乎没有一件事情是有意义的，而我家的花园却成了一个对我来说只有欢乐回忆的地方。
当父亲离开时，我还拥有和他一起种下的第一株向日葵。
当母亲惩罚我时，我还能大口大口地咀嚼那些她常常用来炒菜的香葱。
当我弟弟出生，成人的世界似乎在否认我的存在时，我还有邻里的孩子们给我做伴。
而到了晚上，当邻里的嘈杂声让我无法入眠时，我期许我们简陋的屋子里充满的是嘈杂声而非死一般的寂静，这寂静让我们每一个人都禁不住记起我们家少了一个人。