Garden Memories

I sit complacently on the bench, admiring my peaceful surroundings. The large, open space of the garden is beautiful at this time of year, being early summer, my very favorite season. The leaves on every massive oak tree reaching for the sky are full and green, and every rosebush is full of blooming buds expelling the sweet scent of roses into the atmosphere. Peonies, poppies, daisies, lilacs, and flowers I can’t even name occupy the neatly kept lines and plots of the garden. I’m glad for the peace and quiet. I’m a busy woman; it’s important for me to take time to relax and collect my emotions. Being an extremely successful woman in charge of multiple people at a marketing firm takes a toll on one’s body. Which reminds me; shouldn’t I be at work? Having given up on watches many years ago due to always losing them, I look intently at the sun, recalling my past Girl Scout days to determine the approximate time. The sun is directly above me, meaning it’s around or exactly noon, revealing I have more time to relax on my hour-long lunch break. I settle into the bench once again.

    The garden sits in a courtyard of some sort with a large building bordering three sides of the garden, with the open side facing the parking lot. I struggle to remember what the building is. There’s no sign, but it looks like some kind of fancy apartment building. A car door suddenly slams loudly. Looking to the parking lot, I see a tired-looking mother with two small children enter the garden. One child is a very young boy, settled on the mother’s hip. The other is an energy-filled young girl, running in circles around her mother. Once the trio enters the garden, the little girl bolts to a large flower bush where butterflies are circling, much to the stressed mother’s dismay. Giggling and shrieking, she attempts to catch one, and her mother scolds her, rushing her towards the building. I smile, overcome with a memory.

    At the time, Thomas was just about two, and Maryanne was exactly four and three-quarters, as she would tell anyone who inquired. I had impulsively chosen to take the kids to a fun-filled day at the zoo. Maryanne was exhilarated, having a recent obsession with exotic animals. Thomas was simply happy to spend time with me as opposed to the nanny. At the zoo, Maryanne ran around the open space, trying to see every animal at once.

    “Omigosh! Mom! A giraffe! Is that Pumbaa from the Lion King? AHHH!!” Maryanne suddenly shrieks. Fear strikes through me, but then I realize she had just spotted the zebra enclosure. They were her strongest obsession. She had many zebra-print items of clothing, and a stuffed zebra named Zee was always carried with her, and now bounced in her hand as she ran. She ran up to the railing of the enclosure, reaching her head in as far as it would go. “Mom! Mom! Look! There are two zebras! Can I touch them?!”

    Leading Thomas by the hand, we join her at the railing. I stroke her hair, and say “Honey, there’s a railing for a reason. They’re wild animals; they might bite or kick you.”

    “Actually, zebras are nice. I’m going to have one someday,” Maryanne says confidently. I chuckle to myself and decide not to shatter her dream at this moment. I glance at the plaque bolted to the railing, pointing it out to my daughter.

    “One of the zebras is from southern Africa, and the other was born in captivity,” I tell her. “They’re both girls.” One of the zebras in question suddenly snorts loudly. Thomas babbles incoherently on my hip, looking at the animals excitedly.

    Maryanne looks at the zebras with longing. “When I get a zebra, I’m getting a girl. Don’t worry, Thomas, I’ll let you ride it!” She assures, reaching to kiss Thomas’ cheek. He giggles. She holds up Zee to the zebras: “Zee, these are your sisters! They’re real, but you’re not. You’re just a stuffed animal.” She frowns, suddenly uncertain. “Mom, are stuffed animals alive?”

    An announcement suddenly sounds, saving me from answering that difficult question. A tinny voice informs zoo patrons that a polar bear feeding will take place at 10:30, ten minutes from now. I consult my map of the park and see that the polar bear enclosure is about a five-minute walk away. “Maryanne, they’re feeding the polar bears soon! Want to go see them?” I say, attempting to pull her attention away from the zebras and the important life questions she proposes.

    “Can they feed the zebras instead of the polar bears?” Maryanne whines. I shake my head, and she reluctantly lets me lead her to the bears.

    “Poar-bear!” Thomas exclaims. Maryanne laughs at the outburst, a sweet and beautiful tinkling sound.

   The young girl lets her mother lead her into the building, skipping and humming an innocent tune. The mother, having her hand pulled with every skip, whispers angrily to her daughter. The little girl ceases her skipping, head bowed as she walks normally. I’m caught in a moment in time, sadness suddenly taking possession of my emotions. I miss when Maryanne and Thomas were that young, carefree age. Now, they’re early teenagers, and would probably never dream of accompanying me to the zoo. I think of a recent moment, when I asked fourteen-year-old Maryanne to tag along to the grocery store with me.

    “Oh my god, Mom, no!” She exclaimed, shocked I would suggest such a ridiculous thing. “What if someone from school sees me?” Incredulous, she shuddered thinking of how horrible being spotted with her mother would be. Thomas, being twelve, was of the same mind as Maryanne. He would insist his video game is much more important than shopping.

    From the same door the woman and her children just entered, a young man exits the building, entering the garden. His head is down, hands firmly in his pockets. I notice how defeated he looks, as if he’s carrying a large weight on his shoulders. He walks the length of the garden, and it seems he’s coming towards the bench where I sit. I hope he doesn’t sit by me; I like being alone.

    He comes closer, and I examine his appearance. He has unkempt, cropped blonde hair that falls into his eyes. I’m reminded of Thomas, who prefers his hair hanging in his eyes, insisting “The ladies like it that way.” The young man in front of me has piercing blue eyes, also much like my son. His features are much like Thomas’, and he resembles my son, only aged a couple decades. I note in my mind to tell Thomas of this doppelganger when I arrive home.

    Much to my dismay, the man sits next to me on the bench. I shift to the end, creating a wider distance between us. I turn my attention back to the peacefulness of the garden, ignoring the man beside me. I decide to pretend he’s not there, because maybe if I don’t engage in a conversation with him, he’ll leave me alone with my thoughts once more.

    He clears his throat. I sigh, realizing he wants to start a conversation. I look at him expectantly. I meet his gaze, locking eyes with him. His defeated, sad demeanor becomes more so. “How are you feeling today?” He asks me, a concerned and caring expression on his face.

    I’m confused. “I’m feeling fine,” I say, guarded, turning my attention away from this stranger I’ve never met before.

    “The nurses say you’ve been out here all day. You haven’t eaten any meals.”

    Nurses? I’m dumbstruck. “I’m on my lunch break from work,” I say, looking at him incredulously. “And I have no idea who you are, though you talk as if we’re close friends.”

    His sad expression becomes sadder. He looks down and grabs my hand. I yank it away, which pains his face more. “It’s me, mom. It’s Thomas.”

    I laugh. “I do have a son, Thomas, but he’s much younger than you. Did he put you up to this? He’s always been a prankster.” I smile, shaking my head.

    The young man squeezes my hand. “It’s me, mom. You don’t have work today; you retired ten years ago.” I laugh again. This man is ridiculous. He continues this insane speech: “You have Alzheimer’s, and the nurses called me here to try and get you to eat something.”

    I motion to myself, about to suggest how ridiculous this accusation is due to my age, and my heart drops into my shoulders. My hands are wrinkled and liver-spotted; not the smooth skin of a middle-aged woman. I touch my head, and see my hair to be white and thin, instead of long, beautiful, and silky brown. I cry out, horror striking me. The young man, my son, reaches for me. While still unsure of his identity, I let him hold me, sobbing into his shoulder. I wail as reality crashes onto me just as a wave crashes onto a beach. He’s right: I’m old and confused. My life has slipped away from me as fleetingly as smoke. I allow this “Thomas” to comfort me, as I mourn the life I once lived, as time has taken my youth and my mind and made me an old, sick woman.