Barn swallows swarm in the nests near the ridge of the roof – they never fly away for the winter because summer in that garden is not ruled by the calendar.

Pears always ripen there, sweet purple grapevines are covered with wasps and apples fall right on to the table…
Here I will always cut flowers into bouquets and make wreaths of dainty mummy’s dahlias and cosmos…

I’ll always collect my herbs and press them to dry in an old book. I just want to preserve my memories…

…how our kitten caught the lizard and how I plucked her to safety. How I held her small body in the palm of my hand and studied the patterns on her skin. How still she was…resigned to her fate. This time you’re in luck, babe. I let you go to the warm cover of the well… you disappeared just like that…will you survive the winter?

I can already feel the coolness of autumn and wrap myself in a blanket to sit down on the porch to sip my tea.

I do the same things I have done so many times in my life…
...ever since you showed me how at midnight Ursa Major and her baby bear walk around our roof, how a salty, starry road leads south and drops its stars in our garden…over and over again in a circle…

The only thing I am sure of now is that shooting stars pay no heed at all to our wishes – they just burn up in the atmosphere and leave no trace behind.