with her friends but always showed up for work early and with a smile on her face—had been shot in the back. I stumbled off the couch and stepped out into the oppressively hot day.
A cow lowed in the distance, and I could hear families already splashing in the lake near the Shangri-La Resort. My sweet garden stretched out in front of me like a black, freshly dug grave. I strolled over to it, walking lightly, and bent down to rub my cheek against the soft and spicy tomato leaves. For the whole month of June, I had eaten fresh lettuce, radishes, and peas. As those crops waned, cherry, pear, and beefsteak tomatoes, baby potatoes, kale and chard, and onions replaced them. All the plants were robust and tall, and it was easy to separate the week’s growth of weeds from them. I plucked and pulled for several minutes, moving back to put weeds on the same pile. I tasted salt and dirt as I worked, the combination of steamy air and dusty soil making for a fine layer of black earth clinging to my moist skin.
My weed pile was not impressive, but then again I was meticulous about my garden. Here was my order and structure. It was the one place in this whole world where I could feel safe and necessary. I could nurture without being seen and without fear of criticism, permanent loss, or shame. I gathered up the weeds and tucked them around the base of my three cabbages, each of them nestled in a bottom- and top-less giant tomato can, shoved deep into the earth to keep grubs from getting the roots. The weeds would keep the moisture in and deter new weeds from taking root.
My brief bout of weeding finished, I stood up and heard both knees creak. The sprinkler lay next to the garden where it had been earning its keep and then some for the last four dry weeks. I centered the oscillating waterer and cranked the faucet on the side of the house, watching the cool water spurt into the air before it got sucked greedily into the bone-dry earth. The sprinkles were soothing, soft rain feeding my hungry plants. Without any concrete plan, I stripped off my clothes and lay down next to the sprinkler, between the potatoes and peppers. The oaks and lilacs were thick around my yard, creating a natural barrier to any wandering eyes, but it wouldn’t have mattered because at the moment, I didn’t feel connected to this world’s rules.
As the water washed over my naked body, making tiny clean spots on my dirty skin and reflective pools in my tender parts, I became aware of my roots leaking into the ground, looking for purchase. Water began to puddle, seeking out the dry, powdery dirt still protected under my back. I thought I heard the plants sigh. I got up, turned off the water, and went inside to get ready for work all over again.
I opened the library a half an hour late, seeing Lucy’s smile in the unshelved books. I even thought I heard her giggle once, but when I went to the stacks where I had heard the sound, no one was there. The library was a lonely place to be on this day, and I was grateful when the door opened, even if it was Kennie who walked through it. We hadn’t seen each other since she had melted a little on my couch in July.
“I see you’ve pissed off God. It’s a growing club.”
“What?” The question was as much directed at her outfit as at her statement. She was dressed in head to toe leather, from the animal skin do-rag holding back her brittle platinum hair to the Bedazzled vest to the chaps-over-tight-leather pants that would make Cher feel exposed. I looked over her shoulder at the shimmering heat rising off the paved parking lot and back at her tightly sealed, oily body. All I could think was “mushroom farm.”
She thrust a stapled sheaf of papers at me. “See for yourself.” Her outrageously orange lipstick curled in a smile, nearly colliding with her Anna Nicole fake eyelashes. The sheaf was a petition, and the cause being supported was succinctly and clearly stated at the top. “Ban the Battle Lake Public
A cow lowed in the distance, and I could hear families already splashing in the lake near the Shangri-La Resort. My sweet garden stretched out in front of me like a black, freshly dug grave. I strolled over to it, walking lightly, and bent down to rub my cheek against the soft and spicy tomato leaves. For the whole month of June, I had eaten fresh lettuce, radishes, and peas. As those crops waned, cherry, pear, and beefsteak tomatoes, baby potatoes, kale and chard, and onions replaced them. All the plants were robust and tall, and it was easy to separate the week’s growth of weeds from them. I plucked and pulled for several minutes, moving back to put weeds on the same pile. I tasted salt and dirt as I worked, the combination of steamy air and dusty soil making for a fine layer of black earth clinging to my moist skin.
My weed pile was not impressive, but then again I was meticulous about my garden. Here was my order and structure. It was the one place in this whole world where I could feel safe and necessary. I could nurture without being seen and without fear of criticism, permanent loss, or shame. I gathered up the weeds and tucked them around the base of my three cabbages, each of them nestled in a bottom- and top-less giant tomato can, shoved deep into the earth to keep grubs from getting the roots. The weeds would keep the moisture in and deter new weeds from taking root.
My brief bout of weeding finished, I stood up and heard both knees creak. The sprinkler lay next to the garden where it had been earning its keep and then some for the last four dry weeks. I centered the oscillating waterer and cranked the faucet on the side of the house, watching the cool water spurt into the air before it got sucked greedily into the bone-dry earth. The sprinkles were soothing, soft rain feeding my hungry plants. Without any concrete plan, I stripped off my clothes and lay down next to the sprinkler, between the potatoes and peppers. The oaks and lilacs were thick around my yard, creating a natural barrier to any wandering eyes, but it wouldn’t have mattered because at the moment, I didn’t feel connected to this world’s rules.
As the water washed over my naked body, making tiny clean spots on my dirty skin and reflective pools in my tender parts, I became aware of my roots leaking into the ground, looking for purchase. Water began to puddle, seeking out the dry, powdery dirt still protected under my back. I thought I heard the plants sigh. I got up, turned off the water, and went inside to get ready for work all over again.
I opened the library a half an hour late, seeing Lucy’s smile in the unshelved books. I even thought I heard her giggle once, but when I went to the stacks where I had heard the sound, no one was there. The library was a lonely place to be on this day, and I was grateful when the door opened, even if it was Kennie who walked through it. We hadn’t seen each other since she had melted a little on my couch in July.
“I see you’ve pissed off God. It’s a growing club.”
“What?” The question was as much directed at her outfit as at her statement. She was dressed in head to toe leather, from the animal skin do-rag holding back her brittle platinum hair to the Bedazzled vest to the chaps-over-tight-leather pants that would make Cher feel exposed. I looked over her shoulder at the shimmering heat rising off the paved parking lot and back at her tightly sealed, oily body. All I could think was “mushroom farm.”
She thrust a stapled sheaf of papers at me. “See for yourself.” Her outrageously orange lipstick curled in a smile, nearly colliding with her Anna Nicole fake eyelashes. The sheaf was a petition, and the cause being supported was succinctly and clearly stated at the top. “Ban the Battle Lake Public
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