The morning sun broke through the clouds and scattered light in a way that Bo could see the pattern of his garden taking shape in all dimensions. The hedges needed to be trimmed back and the southeast patch still needed to be raked and sifted. Too many stubborn rocks over there, and the soil was dry, full of weeds and sapped of nutrients. He would be planting cabbage once it was turned, but first he needed to feed the little green bean sprouts in the center that were reaching for the sky. Today he would go to the hardware store and get his supplies.
But first, the broth would need to be checked. It was Agnes’ favorite. It had been simmering for three days now, becoming more and more rich with the flavor of the ham bone. The dumplings were already in the fridge waiting to be dunked and ladled. Bo checked on the broth, bringing the spoon to his mouth and delicately sipping, catching more than a few of his gray whiskers. “This will do,” he thought. “This will do very well.”
Looking in the mirror, he remembered the sound of Agnes’ laugh and her creased smile when he first put on his denim overalls.
“So you’re a farmer now, huh?”
“This is the twilight of my life dear.”
“I can do without the ironing”
“Look. No belt ,” he said, running his hands along his paunch.
“I can’t believe you’re the same man I married,” she laughed.
The wheelbarrow was a little unruly as he pulled it out of the courtyard over the threshold and through the main door. These were old city buildings, and he was an old city dweller trying to be a gardener where gardens weren’t meant to be. Least not by the tenants.
It was a ghost town out there—a stony silence. All he could smell was pungent odors of the insides of things and match sticks. It wasn’t wood or paper, or even fabric. It was an inorganic stench, lending to minor coughing fits. Not the best day for a walk, but he would carry on.
He saw his neighbor Tammy and her daughters Stacy and Luanne moving hastily in the middle of the street carrying backpacks. They were smart–wearing scarves around their noses and mouths. They turned abruptly when they heard him make his way out, motioning him to follow. He waved—stood staring at them for a second in silence—then—pulled his cart back on the sidewalk leading to Frank’s Hardware.
The hardware store was almost cleared of everything. There was some soil and seeds, but most of the tools, fencing, and hoses were gone. He would have to wait on setting up stakes for the vines. People were running in and out grabbing supplies and not even paying. Frank had his TV blaring the news.
…victims of the devastation at St. Cristina’s hospital just days ago. Casualties due to the invasion hit one thou…
“Do you have any all purpose fertilizer, Frank?”
“Take what you need, Bo,” he said without making eye contact. He was busy packing up crates of cans, towels, and jugs of water. He raised his head following his curt reply, speaking delicately now.
“I’m sorry about Agnes.”
“Ahh, here it is,” Bo said as he inspected a bag of 10-10-10.
Bo wheeled out his cache of items for his young garden and journeyed home. Still the same scent in the air. More sirens rang now and the sky had turned gray as soot.
The apartment was quiet, dark and lifeless. More so than before. The broth simmered still. The table settings rested in place.
He looked at the drawings he made of his planned garden and the snippets of articles on horticulture and biodynamics he collected over the years. This was the plan. This is what years of struggle afforded him. Agnes would have been so proud. He thought about all the things he worked so hard to grow, nurture, and protect.
He turned off the stove.
Wheeling to the back, he dumped his supplies into the dirt with a jolt. He looked down and around. His arms didn’t know how to start. His face became rigid and his eyebrows crushed down in grimace. He didn’t see the garden anymore. He saw Agnes’ white coat hanging by the door post.
She was his partner. She was kind. She gave everything.
His ears came alive with the syncopation of loud and soft booms in the distance. He felt tiny rumbles under foot. The air around him grew thick as the city turned in on him. He couldn’t let the snake swallow him whole. He wouldn’t concede to going back to where they fought themselves out of.
Bo found one of his heavy broom sticks and vigorously pried off the head. He moved quickly towards his workshed and found his large steel garden shears. Bo wrenched the two halves apart. “This will do,” he said aloud. “This will do very well.” He ran to the bedroom and grabbed two of his old leather belts. He wrapped one end fastening the blades to the head of his staff. He used another to fashion a handle. He trumpeted his weapon in the air echoing the same gusto as generations of rebels before him.
Bo looked one last time at his garden, admiring the once sunny patch where he planted his sunflowers, just beginning to poke out now. He wrapped his face, grabbed his new supplies, and marched out the door.
