21 Griswold road is a magical land where childhood memories live. A house filled with family, and decorative ceilings for imagined painting during nap time and seemingly endless halls (when you were small), a garden filled with birds, and flowers, and edible delicacies of mud cakes or apricots plucked from the tree or granadillas, figs, or sunflower seeds. The road to 21 Griswold Road is lined with Jackaranda Trees, a barrel vault of soft purple blossoms for sky, mirror a carpet of purple flowers. Towards the back of the garden sits the mulberry tree. How many silk worms were captured here? Their transformation witnessed by curious young minds with teeth and lips stained by the berries. Grandpa, in his safari shorts and long socks, made rounds through the garden, checking on the songbirds he raised in big cages. I can still hear the budgerigars and finches, flashes of color, fluttering and chattering. Around the pool sat the uncles with their beers and big bops, stirring up trouble and chuckling. Inside the kitchen, Granny was baking, flour was sifting and dishes were buttered in preparation, young hands were swatted as they went in for some licking. On the veranda, children were roller skating, the hydrangeas were in full bloom, delicious smells of Grandpa’s roses permeated the air. Light filtered through the leaves and the trees and crept around the lawn, up the walls into the rooms and into our hearts. The house is now gone, the light, it lives on, in our memories of the house with the magic garden.