Soot coats my fingers and clothes. Got to keep going. But it won’t light. Wisps of smoke dance around fragments scattered in the metal box. Wood scarred with cracks, coloured by marks. But still, it does not light. Flames do not come and lick away the scars of what was done.
Giving up, I send the log bucket clattering across the tile flooring and rise to my feet, wiping the damp from my brow. Wind knocks on the panes whilst rain falls steadily from the oppressive grey above. I take my coat from the hook by the door, and wrap myself within the waterproof layer. Must finish.
Pulling open the door, I step out into the late summer garden. I’m greeted by tall concrete walls that line the perimeter, offering some reprieve from the battering winds. Stone lions stand guard on each corner, watching over the garden in its different stages of bloom. They’re watching. Me.
Whispers circle me as I walk the gravelled path to the most recently dug flower bed. Flowers sway in the wind, some dead, others only just blooming. My gaze lingers on a flower bed where colour has vanished. Evidence stares at me. Eyes down. Must finish.
My tools, covered in a mess of sticky brown, are spread out on the edge of the freshly turned flower bed. Sinking to my knees, I pick up the trowel and begin to dig the holes for the fresh bulbs. Not too deep. The earth crunches beneath the metal and a hint of pink peeks at me. For a moment I just stare into the pink whilst the wind curls around my crouched form. Then, cursing under my breath, I force the trowel back out and press the bulbs into their respective holes. They’ll be beautiful.
They will be beautiful.
With the holes covered and the bed prepared, I stand again. My face is immediately greeted by the whipping gusts as I scan the path back to the tilting stone cottage. Evidence stares at me. The bed closest to the house is dead—broken branches scattered like bones atop the blackness of the soil.
Wet gravel crunches under my boots as I gather the mangled wood in my arms. I’ll get the fire going. I will. Black and brown coat the pinkness of my hands, gathering beneath my nails, but I ignore it. Must keep going. Life no longer exists in this bed, the plants exhumed ready for new life to visit.
Rain falls harder against my covered face, reminding me that I am not alone. Never alone. Eyes down. I finish gathering the wood, then hurry back to the cottage, the wooden door creaking on its hinges as it swings open. I drop the gathered wood into the metal bucket before peeling off my coat, hanging it on the hook by the door once more.
Steam rises from my mug, forgotten on the small table by the window, inviting me to take a sip. I wrap my stained hands around the porcelain, eyes staring out at the garden through the rattling window as the liquid warms my chest. I’ve tended the garden for years. It will remain beautiful. I will continue to keep it beautiful. If only I could light the fire.
Author’s Note: A little departure from my usual writing. I’ve been experimenting with fiction, and this is where my imagination took me. I’d love to hear what you take from it – Lucy x
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