Experiment 1.0

Saturday, June 9th, 2018 2:14 am

        It's late. Too late to go outside and just walk around to clear my mind, but our neighborhood seems safe enough for my post midnight breakdown. I don't grab my phone or a flashlight. I already know where I am going and I could walk there in my sleep. Which I already feel like I'm doing. I creep out the back the door and silently shut it behind me. My bare feet slap against the wood as I descend the porch stairs.
        I stare at the street I have lived on my entire life. It appears so different at night only illuminated by faint street lamps that barely fulfill their duty. The air is surprisingly chill for a summer night. I'd forgotten both my jacket and my shoes, but out of pure laziness I'm unwilling to turn back for them. The wind bites into the bare skin on my shoulders and toes.
       I'm here. My safe haven. The place a once loving house stood owned by two loving people. Now burned to the ground leaving only rubble, yet still home to a striving garden. I kneel beside the low wooden posts lining the garden. I run my hand over the surface then recoil as it sharply stabs into my fingers. I pull out the two water bottles I'd brought along. This garden has done so much for me I need to return the favor. Twisting the caps open I pour it out over the lively plants. After their both empty I crinkle the bottles into tight wads and stick them into my pockets.
        I close my eyes and lean against the steady post. I wish I could stay here. In the garden everything is peaceful and serene. There are no dilemmas or conflicts to shatter your hopes-there's only you. You and the strong willed plants that have endure too much, yet didn't give in. The plants that wait patiently for rain or someone kind enough to support them. The plants that have witnessed death, yet didn't succumb to it themselves. I turn over to the tomatoes and ask aloud. "How do you do it?" Then laugh at myself. How pitiful is it speak to vegetable? But that's the prominent thing about the garden. It always answers you. Not spiritually-it just provides a certain mindset that allows whoever asks to find their own answer. I pick up a nearby dandelion and inhale a deep breath before releasing it to scatter the fragile pieces apart. They flutter and float on the gentle breeze before twirling to the ground. I look back to the garden. "What should I do?" I wonder begging for an answer.
       As always the garden answers. Standing back-up my stride is taller. For the first time in a while I am confident in myself. I march back to the house and creep back inside. Before drifting away to sleep I thank the garden for its service and smile to myself.
       "Thanks, again."