Armada | Inside My Head

Le Jardin (The Garden)

I look at her from afar, every now and then. 'She's never going to change,' I think to myself, and shake my head. The patch of lawn on my left is bright green; the first grass of spring is always bright green.

A cool breeze fans my feet as I look at a tilted orange tree. It bore no fruit, no flower, but was scented anyway. The leaves of an orange tree are scented, and you could see it from where I'm sitting.

It had rained last night. The air was cleaner and the trees were greener. It wasn't a very strong, thundering rain. It was soft and soothing. Maybe Zeus was asleep and the rain became treacherous and gave us mortals a shower of redemption.

The sun is slowly starting to prick at my skin, but I've just had a thought. I shouldn't move lest I lose hold of this thought. Redemption.

It's a fancy word. But before I ponder it, I look at her again. I think to myself, 'She'll never change,' and shake my head. A small see of disappointment grows roots in my chest, and I don't worry for it. There is enough pain in my heart to water it.

The wind blows again, and my burning cheeks welcome it. My body is numb from all the cooking yesterday, but I had slept well last night, so I still have the energy to write. Besides, the wind blows at the perfect time: when I'm just in the middle of holding on and giving up.

I sleep for a few hours every night, but I sleep well. Every morning when I stare into my puffy eyes, I laugh and think, 'I sleep better with a broken heart.'

I've had a bit of redemption, and I can finally sleep.

I've gone back to reading a book I started last year. It's a story of love. The boy's name is King. He reverts and marries a beautiful girl. He reverts, but not for the girl.

Pale grey and white clouds cover the sun temporarily and I can just make out a soft yellow outline of the star. I stretch an arm above my head and stare at my hand against the beautiful blotted sky.

We all revert at some instance in time. We revert from the love of a person back to the love of god, from the love of the seen back to the love of the unseen. What we have seen – what I have seen – is too real and true and uncertain. The unseen, then, becomes more tempting.

The wind has shuffled over the smaller clouds, and now bigger, darker ones hang in the sky. The wind itself has become stringer and cooler.

There is lying, in front of me, on a table, a poem by Emily Dickinson. I Years Had been from Home.

'I years had been from home,' I think to myself and wonder, 'am I back home yet?'

There's two strawberries growing in the vegetable patch behind my orange tree: ripe for picking. You can't see them from where I'm sitting because they're hidden behind a bed of small yellow flowers. They're very similar to mustard flowers, except that they're shorter.

I'm thinking I'll pick those strawberries and eat them before the bird does. There's a small, treacherous bird in my garden which always beats me to the guavas.

I can see the guava tree from my window. It's tall and sleek and very lonely.

She's now swinging her chair back and forth, reading through the noise of its metal feet hitting against the concrete floor. The sound irritates me. It reminds me of last night. My head was pressed deep into the pillow and I could hear a hard, hollow thudding sound coming from beneath it. I thought it was the pillow sinking deeper into the mattress. I didn't realize that it was my heartbeat.

I often stand in front of my window and stare at nothing in particular. I haven't found what I look for, what I'm still looking for. But from where I am sitting, you can see the red and white striped flower pots on the sill. There's a mass of green leaves in each pot, and pink flowers. There's a tilted white shed over the window to keep the rain from going in, and I think it's a beautiful sight. It would make beautiful photograph.

She begins rocking her chair again and I think I should tell her to stop. But I look at her. 'She's never going to change,' so I should stop trying.

I'm thinking of how clean the house would be without children. But it would also be very quiet, and lately, I've grown scared of the silence. The feeling of empty makes me restless. I'd rather have a dirty house than an empty one.

For no reason, I think of the things I have lost, and I think of the things I will lose.

There are three black chicks in my lawn. They're jumping about in the grass that needs mowing. They're fighting over a worm, picking at each other's tails, cocking their necks, looking up, looking down, playing. There's no white amongst them because they all look the same.

Of the things I have lost, losing myself was the easiest and the most painless thing I have ever experienced. Of the things that I will lose, letting go of the people I love will be the most courageous thing I will do.

I write still, knowing that this is a story close to my heart, and those who read it will heed it not. They will move on to look at another's words, but here, I will have won another battle.

Perhaps the war is coming to an end, because I can see just a semblance of a peace flag a few battlefields away. Perhaps, through all the storms behind me, I really have come out stronger. I think if that really could be true, but I know that what is more important right now, is that I go and pick those strawberries before someone else does.