Of Fire and Magnolias

He crossed one leg over the other, leaned back a little, and either deliberately or unconsciously raised a thoughtful hand to his chin. A cup of coffee sat in front of him like a theater prop; he’d barely taken a sip. 

She knew another analogy was coming; his preferred method of communication. She'd often wondered if he realized how demoralizing such opacity was for the listener, but had long since given up hope for better. She contemplated, also, pointing out how even Jesus spoke plainly to his inner circle, after telling his parables. She'd also abandoned that thought some time earlier: He did things the way he did them, spoke the way he spoke. 

"If someone wants to successfully plant a garden..." he began,

"The Parable of the Sower mixed with a January 1994 issue of Better Homes and Gardens" flashed through her mind.

"He can't simply just...plant a garden. He has to investigate the quality of the soil; get a sense of the general climate. Evaluate how much sun is there, how much rain to expect. If he really cares, he'll spend months if not years simply looking through seed catalogs, before putting anything in the ground at all."

She stared at him, knowing he could tell what she was thinking. She'd formerly tried to communicate "bewildered" or sometimes "dubious" with her eyes. "Tired," was all she could manage these days.

In a previous version of this conversation, she may have expressed how the prospective gardener might consider that a great fire could come utterly scorch the land during all his careful planning and he'd never have the pleasure of digging into the soil, whatever its quality. She may have offered up how it might be better to just have some magnolias or something there to look at, even if they weren't perfect ones, even if they didn't really get all the rain they were supposed to. Instead, she simply nodded--an acknowledgement not of her agreement with his position, but a mere confirmation that they both knew what was happening, even through her reticence and his strange story telling.

It had occurred to her, time and time again, that if she only had a stronger sense of self-preservation, she wouldn’t be here at all, with him, in these meandering conversations that probably led somewhere, but left her with only flecks of hope. It occurred to her, also, that she lived for these flecks of hope. They clung to her like glitter off of an eight-year-old’s art project: most of it would wear off within days, but then more would turn up, in her coat pocket or on her pillowcase. She’d come to accept this reality as beyond her control; if she could will herself away from him, she would. As it stood, there was always enough residual glitter to encourage the hope of a finished artwork, proudly hung on someone’s refrigerator, someday. 

Maybe it was his eyes that did it, as much as the glitter-hope. There was a truth to them, a kindness, a love, that penetrated even through his veiled speech, through her aching heart. In spite of himself, he lit up the dingy diners wherein they usually met, making the tacky tile floors, the linoleum tables and plastic menus seem lovelier than any 5-star French place she’d been to, with the one before him. She accepted that as reality, too--that, in spite of herself, she would gladly spend every day with him, in a dingy diner, listening to his meandering stories. The tragedy of it all was not lost on her. 

The conversation moved on from his hypothetical garden, a few thoughts exchanged that touched on the places deeper than words, but only for a moment. It occurred to her, as it always did, to break the reticence, to be tremendously blunt, to go back to his garden, perhaps to shout, loud enough to make the busboys look over, “I know I’m the dirt here! I know you have an idea about how you’re doing this, but I certainly don’t. Do you ever think how it feels to be someone else’s dirt?” But of course she didn’t. Her father had raised her better. Instead, she sipped at her lukewarm cappuccino, and considered the absurdity of the frosted pink ring of lipgloss she’d left on it. 

Would more words really communicate what needed to happen? She always wondered about that. If he dropped the stories, if she started screaming--what then? Would the spell be broken, or would the earth shatter? Or would--she considered this the most likely--they remain frozen in time in their anonymous diner, with the only real change being that the hardships of their situation would emerge starkly into focus. His past, her future, their present. She hardly considered them obstacles at all, but she'd always erred toward faith in the good, toward the notion that truth and love win out even in the midst of debris and disappointment. She'd ask him what he thought about this, but feared she might be answered only in a parable, a redirection, a gaze that meant "you're not allowed to ask me about that part of things."

She almost wished he'd tell her to abandon her faith, to stop showing up at these strange meetings. She suspected he couldn't do that, though, because, somehow, truth and love were already winning out. She thought how she'd kill, or die, relocate, evaporate if only she could have tangible proof of this. The glitter would have to be enough to keep her going for the next few days--through the motions of maintaining the job, the house, the life, all of which she guiltily despised. They were good gifts, she knew, but who could possibly enjoy a gift when their heart was constantly bleeding?

They parted shortly thereafter--the stalled gardener, and the dirt girl, sparkling with glitter as she was. The sky above the diner was a nondescript sort of gray, guaranteeing rain to fall, on the just and the unjust. She figured she’d wait for the rain and magnolias, or perhaps for fire--whichever may come first.