Snake in the Garden

     She washed her lunch dishes, not much at all, a single plate, actually quiet clean and not needing much scrubbing (only bread crumbs and a tiny smear of mustard on one edge), a small glass bowl cloudy with the remains of yogurt and dark berries, a spoon, a coffee cup.  In the past she would have waited until the sink was full of dishes, but fastidiousness had become her habit, cleaning-up an act reflexive and natural.

     She looked out the window at the back yard, vibrant with the green chaos of a healthy vegetable garden, tomatoes, heavy-leafed summer squash, cucumbers, peppers, all coming along nicely, and beyond them to the roses along the sunny back fence.

     When they had moved in, she had expected to have to take the roses out, put on her long-sleeved gardening shirt and her heavy leather work gloves, clip back the long ragged arms of the bush, carve the root ball from the soil.  A thin shell of struggling life surrounding a tangle of dead and rotten core.

     But now they thrived in the summer sun.  Their grave state, so close to the end, untended and so near exhaustion and extirpation, had given her the courage to be as ruthless as she needed to be in her pruning.  She had cut and sheared and slashed, opening the bushes up and letting sunlight and air circulate through their choking hearts. 

     It had been good for her to, good to see the garden take shape and fill in empty spaces with growing plants and new life, good too to be outside, away from the sick heavy weight inside the house, away from him. 

     She had saved the roses, carried them through the fall and winter, swaddling them in black garbage bags during the rare over night frosts.  They surprised her with their hardiness.  She wanted them to thrive.

     She went to the library, she read books and articles online, she used gardening podcasts not as background noise but as dedicated listening, sitting in her chair with a cup of coffee and a notepad.  She had never had a garden before, had never known she would want one, had learned only now that she did.  He wouldn't listen to them with her, wouldn't talk about her plans for the garden.   

     She learned about soil, about how it translated time and geology and moisture and chemistry into the poetry of plants.  She had dug into the dirt under the roses, pried open heavy clay gray and cold and sterile.  The roses had been under attack from below, their foundations undermined by poor soil.  And, finally, she found a place for her husband in the garden.

     “He’s finally doing something useful” she said aloud and to herself.  That was another recent habit that felt very right, very comfortable.  She smiled to herself and washed the heavy bread knife.  The roses had never looked healthier, and she hadn't had to use any chemical fertilizers.

     

     Perhaps she could dry the rosehips for tea, she thought.