A Garden Is No Place for a Life
In the quiet, late February morning, I want a garden, cloister-style, in which to meet myself // In my headphones: U.S. Girls—Rosebud (2018)
One day I awoke in a great big house. I woke all alone, in a sizable bed with candy-blue taffeta sheets. I’m not sure exactly what caused me to blink and stir, but I’m sure it had something to do with the honey dripping through my windows. The light was outrageous! I went to the window to push it open and roll open the shades. But I was struck by the overwhelming smell of jasmine as soon as I cracked it open. I inhaled too swiftly, taking big gulps of springtime and with it, the memory of the night before. It was an aphrodisiac, and I was allergic to it.
I ran over to a faded blue and white chinoiserie chair, where a short-hemmed pink shift dress lay folded over one of its arms. I pulled it on so it covered the tops of my thighs. But I’d left the window open, and suddenly the room was too small, the walls too mahogany, the bed too large for just one person; I felt my silhouette most acutely. Oh, but the smell of spring was just unbearable to me! With my venerable, too-sharp achilles exposed to the mid-morning air, I forced myself to slow to a walk as I descended the spiral staircase. Pursued by the spring as I was, I disdained my socks and shoes.
Once outside in the sunshine, what to do? I rolled my neck and massaged my upper left shoulder with the pads of my fingers, pushing as hard as I could without crying out. Still the house slept. I dug my heels into the mud in double time, punching my fists in the air in close succession until I resembled a stomping x. My face contorted with rage. Why must the house sleep while I wake? I grunted and rustled somewhat provocatively, hoping that someone might hear and so come to the window and see. My screams were open-mouthed, and I swallowed them.
A bee circled close to my wrist, so I examined it. As the bee buzzed, my hand shook in catastrophic aggravation. My heels were restless. They carried me every which way, and apparently I walked until I reached the garden at the edge of the wilderness preserve, for I caught my toe on a rock and would have been sent tumbling if the stone arch hadn’t been there to hold onto.
I wound my way through the topiaries, seeing halves in every neat cut of the pruning shears. The shadows of the trees within the garden fell upon the hedgerow and became confused for the shadows of the trees outside its walls. It disoriented me, and I wanted to hang from a branch on an inner tree just to see the shadow change against the reflecting bush. Walking listlessly around the garden, I valiantly fought the urge to rip up the young flower beds like a mad dog. I knew that if I did, I’d simply stare at the soil with envy, wanting as I was then to cover myself up with mud. Instead I sunk my soles into the unshaven clay until I reached the white wisteria-soaked cloister. I decided to walk down its twining halls as if my summer shift were a bridal gown. Taking up a bouquet from the gardens of its mouth, I had just begun the solemn procession when I spied someone bound down the lane outside the evergreen tunnel.
Her face was not set, nor was her affect solemn. She wore wisdom on her lips and mischief in her gaze. I spied the end of her auburn ponytail, and identifying her by the freckle on the upper part of her left thigh, I saw that she was me, or at least a slightly younger version of myself. I set out from beneath the wisteria to meet her.
I could not find her. She was not there. There was only the hedged garden wall, so I did what any rational person might do: I cut circles in the hedgerows, forming big round windows. As I regarded my handiwork, she—I—returned to my side, and together we looked through our glassless windows to the vistas beyond. Eventually we climbed through one hole I had cut. We ran down the hill holding hands. We made our way through the game park, through the wilderness, through the pasture, until finally we strolled back up to the house, she, and I, an acrobat with its balancing pole.
Just before we reached the house, we passed the garden again. Sitting at either end of the stone whispering bench that kept vigil outside the mangled garden walls, the smell of jasmine came rushing through the holes I’d cut, and we whispered stories to one another about ourselves. I waited for her to approach the main house, but she turned and walked back into the garden, instead. She climbed through the tear in the hedgerow, and she winked at me from there. A garden works well as a meeting place, but it is no place for a life! I despaired.
Then, relenting, I brushed off my heels and returned to the house. I sat by the window and breakfasted alone. I poured coffee into my cup and just enough milk to allow the swirl of cream to billow through the bitter liquid.
~
📍between the four weak walls of my college dorm room
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