This is a sea of brown with a touch of burnt grass.
There’s an old shed with a busted door and cracked glass windows. I tug on the rusted handle, and the hinges groan as I pull the remains of the door open. The inside smells damp and musty. Large cobwebs hang in the corners. Usually, I’d run screaming from them, but I’ve met the real monsters now, and these little things no longer have the power to frighten me.
Inside is a collection of old tools. “Well, I’m rusty at gardening,” I say to the trowel with rust spots but a solid handle. “Haven’t touched one of you guys since Pop died, but how hard can it be?”
There isn’t a good place to begin. But I start with the patio. I use a small cushion off the sofa placed inside one of the bags we got from Target as a makeshift kneeling pad.
I’m slow and methodical, shoving the trowel down between the gaps, loosening the dirt and weeds and moss. I can hear Pop telling me to not lose the roots or else I’m asking for the weeds to grow back. I tease and wiggle, easing the roots from the tight and difficult places.
My spine groans as I sit up and run the back of my hand across my damp brow. I’ve only completed two rows of stones, but I realize I’ve not thought about what happened in the time it took me. And when the realization brings Joe’s face to mind, I force it back down.
Saint’s right. I need to process what happened. I need moments of peace when it doesn’t feel as though my whole life is falling apart. I have a small nest egg; the savings will last me, but eventually I’ll need to go back to my life. I have client work I need to get on with.
I take a deep breath and focus on another row of stones. Some of the weeds are a foot high. I haven’t thought about where I am going to put them when I’m done.
Burn them perhaps.
Along with that stupid black slip I was wearing when ...
I haven’t seen it since the night I took it off in Saint’s bathroom. He must have dealt with it, knowing I wouldn’t want to see it again.
I should ask him so I can add it to my bonfire.
“You need some gloves, girl.” As the gnarled old voice finishes the sentence, a pair of weathered gardening gloves with faded pink roses on them lands with a splat next to me.
When I look up, a short elderly gentleman as weathered as the gloves, with skin like old leather, has his arms folded on the fence. His wispy white hair is too long, and it’s pulled back in an elastic, all ratty ends. He’s the first person I’ve spoken to other than Saint since ... well, since I got on the back of his bike. While my heart races, I realize I’m not at immediate risk. There’s a fence between us. Busted up as it is, it’s protection enough; the old man looks like a gentle breeze could blow him over.
I pick up the gloves and slide them on. “Thank you so much. That’s so thoughtful of you.”
“Yup. Gonna take commitment to bring that place back from the dead.” His gaze takes in the yard.
“Well, my pop used to say that a garden is its own reward. Maybe I’ll feel like that when I watch the sun go down today from a clear patio.”
The old man chuckles. “What’re you gonna be sitting on?”
I look around. There is some wood and two old terracotta planters with nothing in them but cigarette butts and old soil. “I’m sure I’ll be able to create something.”
“I’m Harold. But my friends call me Hap.”
I climb to my feet, pull off a glove, and offer him my hand. “I’m ... Briar.”
We shake, and I feel the curve of bent knuckles and swollen fingers. Like the arthritis Pop had.
“Are you living with the man who lives here?”
I guess Saint hasn’t shared much of himself with his neighbor, and it’s not my place to do so. If he doesn’t want Hap to know his name, it’s not for me to tell him. “I’m staying for a little while. Figured I’d earn my keep by doing some puttering around out here.”
“Well, don’t let me stop you. Shout if you need any tools. I have a garage full of ’em.”
“Thanks, Hap. I will.”
And with that, my new friend disappears into his house.
It takes another hour to finish the stones that pave the area by the rear of the house. When I’m done dumping all the weeds, I notice a hard-bristle sweeping brush has appeared on my side of the fence. With a smile, I peer over the fence and look around his garden. It’s beautiful. A riot of fall color and blooms in shades of burnt orange and deep burgundy, given it’s the beginning of October. There’s a weathered shed and canes for beans and peas. “Thanks, Hap,” I yell.
“You’re welcome.” The voice comes from within a small greenhouse in the far corner.
With a sturdy broom, I’m able to clean up the dirt and dust. It really needs an industrial power wash, but maybe that’s something I can do ...
