I live in a drowning garden.
When the breeze blows just right at dusk, I can almost see through the ripples up on the surface of the water. I can see the rain-washed roots of other gardens, the twigs and leaves that litter their ground, and the leftover streams that spill onto their grassy banks.
It’s a mess, really.
The flood tore through them like fire, ripping away branches and scarring the floor with their carcasses. Even now, the Tree Mothers weep for their fallen children.
But not in my garden.
You see, despite its watery disposition, I’ve grown quite used to my humble abode.
With its tranquility and silence under the water surface, my garden is one of reflection. The trees sway in the gentle deep, the fish journey up and beyond their small pond, and the flowers float like wind across the plains. The sunlight rains down in strong, steady streams, painting its golden ripples upon my grass.
And my plants reach for the air above.
Petals floating as if they were just falling, grass stirring in the still water that could only mimic the wind, strong branches reaching for the sky as they had once done before.
Yes, it is my garden, trapped in time.
I realize it will soon come to pass. Soon my plants will die, the fish will leave their home, and my flowers will wilt and scatter in the water. Little by little, my beautiful garden will rot.
Sometimes I long for the chaos of the living gardens. The broken branches will bring safety to the creatures with ruined homes, the seeds will give way to new sprouts, the raging streams will replenish the soil with a newfound vigor. The Tree Mothers will reunite with their young once more.
Their chaos, ever so loud, brings life. But my calm, ever so soft and comforting, is nothing but an aching reminder of death.
My garden is dead.
But it’s still beautiful, is it not?
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Comments are closed.