Humidity blankets the air and clothes become glued to the skin with sweat immediately. The sun, millions of miles away, could be mistaken for following the body from just inches away.
It is no cooler outside than it is inside the old house, its signs of deterioration. Paint peeling off of the siding. Gutters hanging from the roofline. The kitchen window where she watches him has a crack. A weathering that has seen countless hailstorms. The threshold that was crossed in the beginning with joy is now splintered down to the essence of the wood.
He walks out of the house into August heat. The door is bouncing shut behind him, making his way down the slope to the garden. A breeze that would normally bring relief is only tormenting with heat. He wipes sweat with his tattered shirt as he surveys his daunting task at the edge of the rows.
Row upon row of varieties of tomatoes, beans, peas, peppers, cucumbers, and squash. The marriage between the earth and the vegetables is unrecognizable, enmeshed by sharp weeds. Thistles stabbing the plants. The battle being waged on the surface is mirrored below between the roots.
He wipes the sweat off of his brow, remembering the promise made to the first couple. Sins made the thistles. Removing them is the only way for things to survive. His knees shove into the dirt at the beginning of the first row. Where are the plants and where are the weeds?
Nothing but conflict and blurred vision. No gloves, he grasps the base of a thorn covered stem and uproots the invading plant. His callused hands don’t notice the tiny needles poking through, embedding into his skin. He’s fought these battles countless times, how had he lasted so long?
One plant to the next. He counts his sins with each thistle. Clearing the way for the things that are good by removing the evil from the ground. The fruits of good labor. It is what drives the will of man.
Endless rivers of sweat pour onto the soil as if to water the plants. His body is dehydrating, shooting water out of his pores. He thirsts for something. Nourishment had not come for so long.
His neck begins to feel the sting of the sun. He rubs it, feeling an ache in his body that has lasted continuously for years. The heat of the black soil starts to penetrate his clothes. Can’t escape. Looking down the row of his future, he feels it is hopeless.
The hard work, the effort, is it all for not? There are still endless confrontations with the weeds. Everything that was in him barely erased the damage the battles had done. What else could he do?
The row is finished. What was once an Amazon of green vines and purple-flowered weeds was now a beautiful row of peppers. A seed was planted and became this. A nutrient rich fruit that held more value to him than anything else in his life.
He always showed his love for the land. His willingness to work hard to change it, make it better. That was all she asked of him. But he couldn’t do it. He wanted to now. Too late.
He moves to the next row in solitude. There is not a sound in the air. No cars driving by. The silence rings in his ears the way it did inside the house. He was always silent. Why couldn’t he say anything. He had the chance. All you have to do is tell her.
Dusk sets in. Two acres of vegetable crops stand on their own now, devoid of its enemies. He surveys his work, everything he accomplished. Everything grows better without fighting.
Tomatoes and peppers stand supported by cages, helping the stems carry the burden of the fruits. Beans and peas weave in and out of the trellises, their tendrils wrapping around the wires of the fences. Squash and cucumbers snake along the ground, blossoms and fruit protected from the sun by their giant leaves.
Support is the key. He could offer it to the plants. Why not her? The tall pine trees stand erect against the sun on the edge of the property. He stands up gingerly, looking at the thousands of needles on the branches, piercing his skin. They remind him of the pain.
The sun begins to escape him as he walks back toward the dispirited house. No lights on. No life in the house. He neglected it for so long. Nothing but blackness in his small world. he only light flickering in the dark is the small security light clinging to the top of a pole. Its dimness cannot even illuminate the entryway to the house. He opens the scarred door and walks up the stairs into the kitchen. Where have you been?
In the garden.
You’re always in the garden.
It’s our income. How we survive.
You care more about that than you do me.
Where are you going, Rose?
I’m done. You can have your garden.
Don’t go.
Why.
Silence. Silence was always in the house when he was there. His boots echoing on the hardwood floors, the click of the light switch, his watch dropping on the table. It all rang in silence. He tended to his garden everyday, cultivating it. So much promise in the beginning. Standing by each plant from start to finish. Digging miniature valleys in the fertile soil. Dropping each tiny seed into little furrows of dirt.
When the seed is planted, God blesses the sower and lets the plant germinate. Attentive love helps it grow, fighting off its enemies who will stop at nothing to choke it out. It is an endless battle to allow the good to blossom through adversity, and all it takes is commitment and sacrifice. He had sacrificed. And now he will never get a second chance. She’s gone.
This short story was originally published in Grand View University’s literary journal, Bifrost. Many thanks to my professor and mentor, Dr. Paul Brooke, for his feedback and guidance.