The Garden

Saint Mary stood veiled in her glory, arms opened as if to bless the many flowers beneath her. Bright blue Morning Glories scattered throughout the diamonds making up the chain-link fence dividing our yards. Stones outlined the tiny garden apart from the yard. Amongst the stones, daisies pushed their yellow centers up from the ground, crowning themselves in petals of white. Saint Mary stood protecting everything in her site.

   I stood barely caffeinated in my tiredness, staring at the garden. Though overgrown, it appeared done on purpose. An older man with white hair, clad in flannel, used to come out and chat with me. I hadn’t seen him in almost a year. We’d chat here and there when I went to take my dog out. Even on a chilly fall day, he and his wife would sit out here with their tiny grandchildren playing amongst the grass and dirt and flowers. Every time I saw them together, I’d want a love like that, one that’d last through the ages. I cannot tell you how many grandchildren they had because either they had like 10 or 12 daughters or some of them were their grandchildren. I don’t know-- I know they’re Italian-Catholic so it could go either way. Still, I’d envy it every time I saw. He told me of their love story, of their wedding day, and so lovingly of their many kids.

   Perhaps it’s just been a chilly fall. Perhaps he sat in the house, watching television. Perhaps he read-- I’d imagined he had so many books lining throughout his house, accumulated from over the years. I’d imagined he had a cat who would snuggle up on him. Perhaps the old man had a particular chair he’d sit in-- one that was just for him-- one that his grandkids would fight over because it looked so comfortable. Perhaps, actually, not really a “perhaps,” but his wife cooked so wonderfully and would cook so well that the aroma would fill my house and yard. All I’d ever had was store-brand spaghetti. This smelled different. 

He’d tell me of his wife’s cooking when I’d ask him about what he was having for dinner. Then, he’d show me the new smartphone he’d gotten, and tell me how he put pictures of his grandkids on slideshows into picture frames. He’d tell me how he loved technology. The last time I saw him was last year, in fact. When he sat in the yard with his grandkids and his wife. I watched the kids play from my kitchen window, envious of a family I desperately wanted to be a part of, to be included in. 

 For almost over a year, I hadn’t seen him at all. I’ve seen his wife, short in stature and her children, and their dog. As much as I’d wanted to ask, I also didn’t want to ask. On this particular morning, my mother asked me if we should check on them. She knew I talked to the old man and his wife when I was around-- before I got a “big girl” job. 

The first time I’d spoken to the old man was in regards to his Blessed Garden. I asked him about the statue, about the flowers, about the tree, about his wife, about the many children I’ve noticed playing the in yard.

“Susie,” he once disclosed in his Buffalo-Italian voice, “has been with me since we were fourteen. And we have seven daughters,” he doted, “and we have thirteen grandchildren.” 

You could tell in how he talked about them that he loved them all very much. So much love filled even the yard. You could tell he worked for everything, all of this happiness. 

In case you were wondering about the Buffalo-Italian accent, the nasally sound is more on the Buffalo end meshed together with a slight New York influence, and includes a slight higher pitched bounce to it. 

Throughout that first summer, I grew to learn more about my neighbors as I took my dog out. My mother noticed I sat outside more. This old man was intelligent, loved debate. Hell, I even debated him. I never knew which side of the political spectrum he sat, mainly because he debated from all ends. (It should be noted, I once noticed a “Democrat” sticker on his front door on my way to work after a debate once.)

He loved my dog, even told me about a dog he once had named “Sadie.” She lied resting under a tree in his yard. 

It took me a while, but I gathered that Saint Mary was his favorite Saint. The family was very Catholic. They also celebrated everything. The more I learned, the more I admired my neighbors. 

Last December, or was it January? I don’t remember, but it was winter. It’s almost fall now. I’ve seen no sign of my friend.

One of his daughters was bringing a dog out in the yard. This dog must’ve been a new addition. I grabbed my jacket and ran out of the back door and into the yard. I stopped her, she was nice. 

“How’s everyone?” I asked. 

She said they were all doing fine.

“I just haven’t seen Francis in a while and...I hope he and Susie are okay.” I mentioned to her.

Saint Mary stood between us, the daughter’s eyes moved towards the ground. As she told me how Francis had gotten cancer and how he passed this past summer. Overwhelmed by the ever-growing knot in my stomach, I fixated my gaze unto Saint Mary. 

“Is Susie doing okay?” I asked.

Susie, the daughter assured me, was a strong woman. Her children, their husbands, and her grandchildren all make sure she’s well taken care of and visit her often. Which, honestly, that explained all the parking being backed up on Sundays. The daisies pushed out, and I wished her well as the dog motioned for her to go inside. 

I caught myself looking at the statue. The knot from my stomach travelled to my throat. I felt it grow towards my eyes. 

As I walked to my door, Saint Mary shined in the fall sun, amongst the daisies and leaves, and Morning Glories. I stared at the fence, remembering conversations once had there.