The Garden.

It was only a matter of time.

I stood by my kitchen sink, overlooking the overgrown and unruly vegtable garden I had so painfully raged against. It was never I who had the burning desire to grow food in our backyard, so unskilled in the art of rearing nature. No, that idea had been his, solely his. I had begrudginly amused this each day, donning my large sun hat and gardening gloves with the pretense of making some progress, knowing the whole while it would be him who would weed, dig new plots, and prune. I could barely even water them succesfully.

I scoffed outloud, aching with the bitterness that partnered all too well with the feeling of anger. That garden had been his, not mine, and yet I was the one left with it, left with the burden of looking at it each and everyday.

The afternoon sun beat down fiercly through the window, forcing me to lift my hand to continue looking over the garden. I shifted my weight, noticing in particular how pathetic the tomatoes looked, so overcome with weeds. I felt the familiar sensation of anger stir deep in my stomach, the feeling that arose everytime I realized just how much he had left behind. Grinding my teeth, I set my face into its familar blank slate and turned abruptly from the window, grabbing my hat on the way out.

The scorching summer heat felt like a sturdy wall as I forced my way outside. I hardly noticed the screaming of the cicadas as I marched towards the tomatoes, already eyeing the weeds choking the red fruit. Stopping by the garden shed, I quickly grabbed my shears knelt down, fiercly cutting at all the weeds I could see. Not even five minutes outside, and I could feel the heat and exertion take its toll on me. Sweat rolled down my back and face, and I angrily wiped it away as I continued freeing the tomatoes. No matter how many times I whacked at the weeds, new ones kept appearing, as if mocking me for even trying to remove them. Setting my teeth and digging deeper into the dirt, I continued my fight with nature.

Somewhere along the line, I had lost it. Not my mind, of course, though that sometimes feels like the case. No, what I had lost seemed, at times, much worse. Lacking in me, in the deepest trenches of my soul, was the once abundant ability to feel anything but rage.

It was his fault, not mine. He was the one who left, not me. He was the one who packed his things, he was the one who slowly began to withdraw from conversations and jokes, he was the one who went through the door without looking back.

I never really did appreciate him enough; maybe he was relived when he left. I was always working, working, working. Not enough time to devote to our marriage, not enough time to devote to our future plans, not enough time to devote to his impulses. Not enough time to devote to his stupid wild garden. It seemed dull at the time; after all, who would want to trade decades of writing and experience for the narrow-minded redundancy of catering to his whimsical passions?

After he left I stopped writing. It wasn't a subtle decline, or even a brief recurring recess. I just stopped altogether. He left two years ago, and I haven't put pen to paper since. I had been dropped by my publisher soon after, and the deep apathy I had felt towards abandoning my career only fueled my anger. Writing was me, it had been a part of me since I could remember, and yet, with its complete removal, I had felt...absolutely nothing, save for the constant, all too familiar rage constantly brewing inside me.

The sharp sounds of the cicadas brought me out of my musings. I had hardly made any progress, the tomatoes still drowned in weeds. Feeling a sudden and strong surge of rage, I threw the shears to the other side of the garden and grasped the bottom of the first tomato plant I saw. I yanked upwards, and the plant sprang free from the dirt, its roots dried and weak. The red fruits, most of them shriveled and eaten, fell from their leaves, litering the ground with specs of dull red. I tossed the plant roughly aside, and fueled the sudden and illplaced anger, continued uprooting the tomatoes until there were none left.

I panted loudly, observing my work. I stood in the middle of a sea of green stems and leaves, accented red with their former companions. My chest heaved, feeling the exertion in my arms and lower back. I inhaled the scent of dried dirt and leaves, feeling a sudden weight on my chest. I collapsed to my knees, putting my hands in my lap. It was only then I realized I had forgotton to put on gloves.

My red, irritated palms glared up at me, pulsing with their wounds. I inhaled sharply through my nose, feeling detached from my own injuries; they would surely need to be disenfected and bandaged later. Lifting them from my lap, I inspected them closer. Both were bright red, bleeding through the new, deeps slashes I had earned from pulling up all the plants around me. Suddenly, I began to laugh. Laughing harder than I had since he had left me, I threw my head back up to the sun, almost cackling. Returning my gaze to my hands, and without thinking, I gently pushed them palm first into the dirt where the tomatoes once flourished. I expanded them, feeling the dirt make its way inbetween my fingers and into the newly made slashes and cuts. Opening and closing them, I relished in the feeling of the earth and its coolness on my miserable skin.

And then, I began to cry.

Sharp, burning breaths wracked my body as I wept over my hands, still encompased in the solace of the earth. I cried out, thrusting my head up to the burning sun. My hat fell off, meeting the earth with a soft thud. The heat of the sun beat down on my face, warming me in an agressive embrace.

He left, taking with him my peace. He left, taking with him my love. He left, taking me with him.

This was as close as I could get to him. With my hands in the ground and body baking under the sun, this was as close as I could get to him. It was he who lay in the ground, not me. It was he who lay under the sun, not me. It was he who could not feel, not me.

With that last realization, I began to sob louder. This time, my cries were tinged with a sentiment of relief. I'm not gone, I realized. I can still feel.

It had been two years since he had left me here alone. Two years since I chose my work over him, my impulses over his, my time over our garden. It had been two years since I had felt anything at all. Two years of using rage as an excuse to cover up guilt and sadness. How long I stayed outside in the dirt is unclear; time had abandoned me in that moment. Eventually, I picked myself up from the ground, sweat still running fiercly down my face, back drenched and achy, and stumbled my way back into my house. With a backwards look at my garden, I took in through my tears the vacancy the tomatoes had left.

I never really liked tomotoes anyway. I think i'll plant some grapes instead.

Without taking off my shoes or washing my hands, I ran inside, tearing through the boxes he had packed up before he died. His note sat in the first box I opened, and I held it to me as I continued shifting through the boxes. Finally, I found what I needed and sat down heavily at my kitchen table. Grabbing a pen and a notepad, and without stopping to think, I began to write. As I wrote, I felt myself lighten, and my shoulders straightened with the sensation of determination. I let myself feel everything.

I looked up at the picture of him I had grabbed from his boxes, now propped up in the middle of the table, set infront of his favorite books. Hurridly, I wrote down the first thing I hadn't let myself feel for two years.

I miss you. I'm so sorry.

It was only a matter of time, and that time had come.