The Present's Surprises
Nick CarrawayA package by the door. Inside, he’d opened it. No, nevermind. I’ll wait for her, he thought. He knew what it was anyway. He knew it was for her.
Later. “Did you see what we got?”
“No.”
“Weirdest thing. A mug full of moss.”
“Did it come with instructions?”
“I didn’t check. You know I’m not good with things like that.”
He checked. There it was, a mossy-topped coffee mug. Pastel in colors. Yellow and blue-green. A strange Easter egg with a handle and full of fur. The instructions hardly related. He gathered that a soak of water and windowsill would be best.
It sat for days.
* * *
In the meantime, a garden waited. He liked the time of year. On the first workday, he had to shovel some old snow off the rose bushes. He knelt on the soft melt. Scratched cold rust from the rose pruners. Dusk still came early then. He tried to come back the next week, but a snow forecast became two inches of rain instead.
Days lengthened. The buds had just started to form. The smooth of bare brown branches suddenly interrupted by burgeoning bumps. He clipped according to careful rules made on split-second decisions. Buds must face outward. No crossing branches. Remove dead spots. Leave nothing thinner than a pencil.
He must’ve been a sight. Dressed in rigid regularity. Work jeans with ripped pockets from clinging thorns. Kneepads and gloves required. Long sleeves a must, even if it hits 65 degrees. He worked hard without break. Still, too many rosebushes meant he’d be back one more time.
When he’d finished, it was spring. Green stemmed daffodils emerged and Forsyth’s shrubs burst yellow along the driveway. The only evidence of winter was out back amongst dormant weeds. There, several tarp-loads of dead thorns piled up. Same place as last year, picked for shade and dampness. Their long, slow decay had already begun.
In front, the flower beds looked fresh and new. The tangle of green and brown stalks hewn into imperfect cones of air and light hewn. Reddish purple sprouts urged towards the triumph of bloom. Fed on fresh wind and slanting sun. He liked this time of year. The promise of life never as potent as now.
* * *
Had she noticed? She didn’t say if she did. The winter had stolen something from them. But an early spring would get it back. A small mouth opened in the mug.
One day he came home. She had opened the windows. Took off the curtains and pulled up blinds. The next week he cleaned. Months of dust no longer gathered in corners. Forgotten sticky spills were wiped away. Even the dog had his fill of sleep. The beast now preferred to stand. Restless black eyes stared out bright windows. They heard him whine, longing to sprint after cats he could not catch. They shared a laugh at the pet’s dumb joy.
Of course, the change was nothing tangible. No magic spell. No enchanted broomsticks. Stress was still there. Leftover straggles of dead thorns rode home in truck beds. Daylight sprung ahead but still danced at a premium.
It was enough though. The dinners remained short but led to longer embraces. Glances grew more frequent, deeper. They at last found air and light. Something new would surely follow.
She still hadn’t let on if she knew. He wondered if he should bring it up himself. Or maybe the magic was there in the waiting. The obvious potential. The quiet air and plain light.
On the windowsill, a few green shoots appeared in what had once been just a mug of moss.
Reader Comments (3)
Great use of the metaphor of Spring for an awakening of the relationship. We all go through dead periods where the look in the eye seems lifeless. But we have faith that it will come back, just like Spring.
I enjoyed the wisdom of the gardener who knows the possibility of the plant and the field turning over to new life. There is a hope in the story that is unmissable. Good descriptions of the spring and curt sentences make the story move in a modern way. Like the change of time, things happen quick, but there is a million other silent sentences in between.
Thanks for the lunch
Prose marries poetry. Relationships are like housecleaning and rose pruning and spring. Sometimes issues need to be cleaned up; sometimes things need to be pruned, but if the proper maintenance is done, things bloom anew in the most amazing ways. Good work, Nick.
Thanks for your kind comments. I do think there is something profoundly interesting to the creative destruction that's sometimes necessary in life.