Horse Chestnuts

A few things struck me this morning as I picked up the Horse Chestnut blocking my path to work. Gleaming in the sun and smooth as a polished oak table I could almost see my reflection in this discarded seed.

I realised autumn is approaching. If conkers have started to fall- the epitome of autumn in any child’s eyes- then we are certainly beginning a new season.

It dawned on me that I haven’t experienced an autumn in five years. I haven’t seen the leaves changing colours then shriveling into deep red sun dried tomatoes hung out to dry on branched lines like crisp starched underwear. I haven’t followed the leaves’ path falling effortlessly from branch to the ground like rocking cradles to create a blanket of protection against the looming frosts. I haven’t watched the nights roll in consuming days like the ivy insidiously taking over our garden. I haven’t observed a winter arrive knowing I can do nothing to stop it.

I try not to reminisce about my childhood, too much has changed, too much is now missing. Yet, in that split second when I spotted this golden gem, I was transported back to being the eight-year-old girl I must have once been. Back to a time when all the entertainment I could possibly want was wrapped up in a green covered shell. I relived that child-like wonder this morning, scrabbling to collect all the fallen treasures in my reach. I carried them in to the office between the creases of my arms and elbows like a first-time parent might carefully cradle a newborn child.

In preparation for the annual conker wars I would laboriously bore holes into these precious stones attempting to push through a string as if it were as simple as a needle and thread. How I avoided severing a finger in the process I still have no idea. I remembered the annual amnesia of childhood hope; forgetting my destiny was to loose in the first round every single year. Not even the nicest of boys would risk their reputations to give me a fighting chance.

I remembered my mum driving me after school in a hopeless search for the biggest, shiniest, strongest chestnuts: my key to fame and trophies. I remembered discovering not conkers but a stolen safe concealed under the branches of a Chestnut tree, evidence in a crime that I was too young to comprehend. What disappointment in hearing that these riches were not ours to keep but boy did we have a story the next day to tell to our friends!

Lastly, at the proud age of thirty when my confidence has finally started to wear in to fit the body with which I was blessed, it struck me that the Chestnut I found today reminded me so very much of something else reclaimed. Tucked neatly away into a padded bed like a solitary pea in a pod, unblemished by the sun’s rays, the weathering wind, the rain, and the hurt of human touch, it dazzles in the sunlight unearthed for the very first time. It is an interesting comparison, one I would not have made at eight years old. I decided tonight this allegory merited writing down.