The Garden

It was the summer I graduated college, the kind of summer that feels like it belongs only to you. It took me six years but the degree and the summer was all mine to do whatever I wanted with it. The days stretched long and slow, glimmering with heat and possibility. I was still shaking off the remnants of a dead-end relationship that had exhausted itself, full of apologizes and unfulfilled promises. I had stayed longer than I should have, holding on out of comfort and fear, rather than accepting the inevitable. But that summer, I felt like I was standing at the presupposes of something infinite; the world felt huge in a way that was both terrifying and exhilarating. I could do anything, be anyone. I had no map, no plan, just a hunger for something that was at the tip of my fingers.

She moved into my apartment building in the fall and had a boyfriend then, followed him up from Florida. Maybe it was the bitter cold of Ohio, or the way that she spoke about him - absentmindedly, with pauses and quiet sighs, but you could sense something had already shifted. That season was fading, soft at the edges. There was something else waiting in her, she just needed to exhale. I made the first move -watching the Christmas lights sparkle on her bird of paradise through the window, I grew bold and introduced myself. Our friendship grew quickly and organically.

It was her dream to start a garden, to give and take from the earth, to rely on no one but herself. We worked together all spring and summer to build our safe haven behind the apartment, planting tomatoes, pulling weeds and hauling buckets of water. There was a steady, familiar rhythm to our shared silence, the way we moved around each other like we’d done it all our lives. We spent entire afternoons beneath the sweltering sun, hands caked in dirt, arms flecked with sweat. I found myself mesmerized by the forests of her hair, the way she stuck her fingers delicately into the soil, whispered love songs to the growing buds. Her touch was energetic, magical even and the garden bloomed to life under her tender care. It never felt like work though. It felt like the universe had pressed pause, just for us. It always felt like falling in love.

Sometimes the work took us into the evening, the sky fading from blue to orange to that soft lilac twilight, sparking with fireflies. Drunken nights blurred into each other, hazy with marijuana, cheap wine and whispered hopes of the future we weren’t sure we believed in. She wanted to leave the state, build a commune, start fresh somewhere. Nothing held her here, she was boundless. She made it all sound so effortless, so doable. I remember thinking, “I would follow her anywhere.”

All summer I dreamt of blackberries - full, sweet and plump on my tongue, the juice running down my chin, staining my fingers violet. I think it was always her I tasted in those dreams. She was everything I wanted to be - self-assured, strong-willed and radiantly free. Both from worldly expectations and any limitation of the imagination. She moved through life like it was made for her, like it bent gently to her will, never in defiance but with a confident certainty. Her dreams weren’t like mine, they were wild and loud and unapologetic. I was drawn inevitably into her orbit, the way she experienced the world and I was insatiable.

I was in awe of her.

When I caught sight of flesh- a bare shoulder or the delicate curve of her spine under a damp t-shirt, I was overcome with dizzing desire. I longed to expose her hip, kiss the creases of her body, the curve of her neck where sun met shadow. But it was more than just a physical desire. I wanted to know her, to hold her heart in my hands. I was happy just being near her. When her fingers brushed the small of my back- accidental or maybe not, my breath caught in anticipation; I was on fire, eons of nerves lighting up all at once. I was constantly on the verge of something- confession or combustion, I couldn’t tell.

I wanted to do things for her. Quiet, intentional things. I imagined sneaking my extra tickets from the fair into her purse when she wasn’t looking, just to see her laugh when she found them. I washed her dishes and cooked dinner for us with potatoes and peppers from our garden (she hated to cook and would eat from a bag all day if she could). I wanted to hold the door open for her, kiss her unashamedly in the garden isle. I made excuses to come see her; I had accidentally left my sweater or bought her a book of poetry, could I stop by for a few minutes? I gave her back massages when she ached after watering the garden, I leapt to her beck and call. I pictured us together on slow Sunday mornings, me at the stove flipping chocolate chip pancakes, her barefoot on the patio picking basil, sunlight streaming through her dark hair.

I wanted to give her the whole word. But I never knew how to tell her. So I wrote this instead.

September came too soon- the last tender touch of something intangible. The days got shorter, the buzz of the cicadas final songs slowed to a whisper. And maybe that summer was never meant to be more than that, a fleeting glimpse of a future I would never have, a doorway into the rest of my life. Sometimes I still think of her, the mud on her knees, her laughter carried off with the wind. I don’t think I’ve ever lived more honestly or more authentically than I did in that garden with her, with the earth in our hands and hope in our hearts. It lives in me still, with all the fire and wide-open wonder I’ve carried ever since.