Things I Wrote at One Time or Another

The Arcana; "and in between we garden" pt. i

A/N: I don't like this very much but I like writing stuff during the post-plague period. From my amino.

☀︎︎ | and in between we garden, pt. i

His hands dug into the damp soil, letting it crumble and fold over his soft skin until his fingers resembled the spindly roots of the tomato plants. His father squatted a few feet away from him, tending to the larkspurs ready for their season. He planted them every July, just for him.

Luca felt inclined to tug at the roots of the tomatoes, feeling their cold underground fingers against his, but he knew it wasn't right. He pulled them out, examining the dirt that collected under his nail. Rubbing the tips against the cloth of his shorts, he wandered over towards Issa, landing on his back with his arms curling around his neck.

He mumbled into his shoulder what was suddenly on his mind, "Is it true dead animals help the plants grow?" He was only seven, and he knew that some things don't live forever: bugs, birds, cats, and people.

What seemed to: the sun, the garden, and Issa.

Issa eyed him carefully, surprised by the question. He settled his hands upon his knees, "Where'd you hear that?"

Luca pursed his lips, "The butcher found his cat dead the other day, said he'd send it our way if we needed it—he said they do."

"And what were you doing at the Market by the butcher's?"

"Asra was helping him look for the cat," The boy said, looking shy at the mention of his new friend. Issa chuckled, tugging at his son's shirt so he'd squat down beside him.

"The butcher is right, they do," Issa said, tugging off his gardening gloves and taking off his sun hat. He waved it in front of them for the cool air, "It's their way of giving back to The Mother Gaia."

Issa wasn't very spiritual, and he often made up or merged different ideas together. Mother Nature, Mother Gaia, Our Lady Green, The Earth. Luca never questioned him when he came up with a new name, for they were all the same: Home.

"That's kind of gross," Luca said, scrunching up his nose all silly. Issa laughed, "Yeah, I guess it is."

There was a moment of silence, filled up with the sound of buzzards and dragonflies making their way through the garden. Luca settles quietly beside Issa, watching him pull out weeds and water the campanulas. The thought of plants growing out of dead animals seemed to simmer in his mind, until he spoke up again:

"Do we help the plants grow when we die?"

Issa placed his watering can atop the empty birdbath—it was left empty because Luca kept scaring the birds away whenever he came by to paint on the stone. "We do," his father explained. Luca seemed to think hard about this, looking out at the abundance of flowers.

A hand landed on his shoulder, Issa kneeling down so they were eye to eye. "We come from the Earth, and when we die we return to it," He shook Luca's hair a bit, making him giggle. "And we garden a little in between."

"When I die, can I grow marigolds?" His son asked, he looked around. "Or bluebells—or, or . . Chrysan—Chrysanthes . . Thums, Chrysisums—"

Issa chuckled, "Chrysanthemums—and . . You have a long time until you need to worry about what plants you want growing out of you."

"You're right . . ." The boy perched himself down against the birdbath, imagining Asra's face when he relayed this newfound information back to him.

"Luca," Issa said suddenly, he had been taking a moment to look at the cottage. "When the time does come, when you need to think about those kinds of things, you know I won't be here—right?"

Luca knitted his eyebrows in confusion, "Where are you going?"

Issa turned to him, a nervous smile on his lips as he thought about the way he would phrase it. "Well, Im just making sure you understand—you're gonna wake up one day and find that I've turned into an old man—"

"You're already an old man—"

His smile faltered, feigning annoyance. "A really old man. With white hair and wrinkles all over me!" Luca burst into a fit of laughter as Issa tickled him.

"And . . " Issa stopped, placing his hand atop Luca's head. "I'll probably need you to do things for me, like take care of the garden."

Luca wipes the tears from underneath his eyes, unsure if he should still be smiling. "I can do that," he said. "I know almost all the flowers; Lilac, Dogwood, Tulip, Ranunculus—" he pronounced the last one very slowly, like chrysanthemums, it was difficult for him to say.

Issa gave him a warm smile, "Soon you'll be a walking plant encyclopedia."

"Ensickle—" Luca began, but knew he started it wrong by the sympathetic look Issa was giving him. "I still have words to learn . ." He admitted shyly, but his father wasn't worried.

Issa cupped his face in his hands and kissed his forehead, "You're my favorite flower, Poppy."

It was what he always said, he never had to plant a single poppy as long as he had Luca. Luca never had to worry about words or what kind of flowers he would bring at the end as long as his Papa was there.

The garden, ruined by age and absence, curled like a weed-infested monstrosity. The land smelled of animal remains and the rotten peaches that circled around the old peach tree—their velvety naps pierced and moldy. The wooden fence was barely standing, the ivory had turned into suffocating vines, the door creaked ajar on its broken hinges, and the inside looked just as haunted as it did on the outside.

Luca stood there with an old rake he grabbed from the shed, dusty and covered in rust, but good enough to start. It's been ten years since that day with the talk of dead animals and garden keeping until the very end. Issa had gone away, whether it be the end or somewhere else. The guards had looted the place, taking the valuable things, leaving what they assumed to be homely trash. That was two years ago.

He'd cried enough, fought enough, to last him (he hoped) a lifetime. Luca returned to the old cottage, finally convincing Alma that it wouldn't kill him. No one dies of a broken heart. She hadn't.

She couldn't understand why he needed to look back—so many tales told him not to. "What on Earth are you going to get done over there anyway?" She asked last night in the Kitchen, her eyes cast down to the floor—the mere mention of the cottage seemed to tear her apart.

He was going to do what he can, it's been left alone for long enough. He didn't need to convince Asra to help him fix the place up, Muriel would need a bit of talking to. In the end, he'd keep Issa's promise.

"I'm going to garden."