In the eyes of others, they could never feel or imagine someone who could passionately hold this idiosyncrasy towards a native vegetation. Never did they know the circumstances in which this “idiosyncrasy” could have become so remarkable to one’s own memory.

 

Hikarigaoka, aptly named in Japanese, the “Light on the Hill”, is where my grandma used to live. My first visit to it was in the quickened tempo of blossoming of Gingko trees. To cast a quick glimpse - the hill was shiny in green as a boundless overlay of tranquil sunlight tinged the enormous greenery.

 

“Ginkgo has a special scent that one can never forget,” said grandma, “I once bumped into a British revisiting this place, just because of the trees and leaves. How amazing.”

 

We stretched ourselves along the trails and inhaled an atmosphere laden with balmy air. I paused just to look at the trees pensively. So ordinary, so lame, so unspecial.

 

My second visit had to trace back to the summer in grade 5. The hill was greener and more energetic than the previous. “Do you know why it is called the Light of the Hill?” asked grandma. “When fall is around the corner, ginkgo’s fan-shaped leaves turn golden and hold their colour even after dropping to the ground. This is not the end of their lives.”

 

Last two years in fall, we were called back to see grandma’s last moment. In the evening, I returned to the hill to recall the fondest memories. But what came right in front of me was striking – the gingko leaves formed a golden carpet for the hill and filled the air with an unforgettable scent. Standing still, I could feel the warmth grandma left to me.

 

“I see them as I saw them.” This place has not changed; my memory with grandma has not altered. As long as memory retains, my grandma and Hikarigaoka will be the light of the hill eternally.

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Written by Nicola Ulaan (Wan)