These arms were often ropes that stopped another from looping around someone’s neck. These ears: river mouths where someone’s grief emptied. These lips: graves that swallowed someone’s, everyone’s secrets. This heart: a garden for the dying bees, thorny weeds, and indigo-banded kingfishers you can only find in these islands, among other forgotten in-betweens: table for two, for three on dusky coasts, long bus ride conversations, you are my ride or die. The I cannot imagine life without you. Before some new arms, new ears, new lips, and new hearts become the new ropes, new river mouths, new graves, and new gardens.
Under this sun, I am wilting. This ravaged land beckons rain. When a kingfisher swoops in, I ask, What’s the point really? Birds and trees are my only true friends now. The point is, she said, this whole garden is only ever kept green by tending. First, you make a clearing. By god, you will puncture a finger and bleed. Your cells will spit the thorn out. You will fear other thorns. But the garden is not quite finished yet. You will take your little tear-moist hands and your little rake. You will let the fear go. You will fall in love with the act of clearing again. Make no mistake: You will. One day. You will stand in your lonely garden and you will brave the sun. You will breathe a prayer out of breathless lungs, shivering. Then, you will say, I will make my garden because of and despite it all. Because it is my garden and I deserve one, even if I am the only one tending it.
This piece was first published in Epistemic Literary’s Issue 4, “Exclusion” on November 13, 2024.
