Vision of the Garden

This street of quiet suburbia, the little girls go n play in each other's houses till evening comes on.
The little blonde girl, her dad comes over to knock. A thin dude, blond spiky hair, glasses, gentle smile. Wearing a big padded ski jacket. Often to be seen carwashing. Also his son, dressed identically, a rotund, selfish face. Knock knock knock. Is Tracey there? Obviously its hometime... Chap at th' brownwood door.
Up the hallway into the cosy kitchen where the light is already on. Mum n that are sitting in there smoking, not moving. The hall is dark. They nod n smile, very gentle like with their big jackets on. The evenin twilight.
"She's not here". Blue shadows gathering in the shallow cul de sac. No lights on in the semi-detached suburban mansion, of orange brick, of tiles, big plaster-walled rooms. The bedrooms empty and dark. A huge silent block of darkness.
Why do they sit so impassive in the kitchen, so drowsy in the yellow electric light? They look on, amused, judgemental, not moving unless to flick ash in an ashtray. A distant setpiece in electric light, still and even. My mum's brown sweep of fringe, my brother languid, crossarmed, unspeaking. Entertaining friends in the lamplit kitchen, the stereo softly on. Not participating.
Off go the dad n brother with soft OK's. I close the front door. The much-maligned scuffed and maltreated brownwood door, metal letterbox, frosted glass pane. Some impulse makes me yank it open again for otherside revelations.
Outside.... The twilit cul de sac had vanished, and in its place, through the portal, stood a vision of a beautiful garden.
A garden in summer, a mid-August garden, a garden in a blaze of light. Suburban garden. In one corner, a marked-off flowerpatch. And standing on the grass, a number of wild beasts. Oh garden where in summer we'd lie on the grass and wait for rain, where I'd watch sunrises or laze with books in the shade, miserable grasspatch, arena of childhood.