We made a garden, in the beginning. It started with a few precious seeds and bulbs. We gently patted them into the freshly turned earth and linked hands lovingly over the soil. We planted flowers, but more than that: love, hope, beauty, dreams. They were so tender, and precious. Our warm welcome tears watered them – tears of hearts met and fairytales found. It was… it was beautiful. Even without the blooms, it was beautiful. It was a promise. And it grew into our own magical place, a piece of the world where pain and fear disappeared. And it was ours.
Until I burnt it down. Slash-and-burn, in a way. It hurt to put a match to the hyacinth, the lavender, the lilacs and snapdragons, the poppies and the foxglove. But I had to do it. Our paradise was infected. Our paradise was… lost. But I couldn’t bring myself to raize every single thing. The sunflower – the first thing we planted together – I couldn’t kill it. I couldn’t hold my flame to the petals. I couldn’t let it die.
And then we met in the garden on a moonlit night. You were watering the ground and I knelt there with you. I wondered… I wondered if there might be hope for this place after all. If perhaps the fires would cleanse and create our fantasy at last. If it would rise from the ash of our faults and fears.
It wasn’t meant to be. I see that now. Around you I became the sorceress of the tales, noxious fumes and toxic brews. And you were the cruel wizard the knights fought against. You plucked that first sunflower and I felt it as if you were tearing my own hair out, piece by piece, and tears stung my eyes. You wanted to make me bleed, because I tried to hide from you. Because I couldn’t be myself with you – wings yes, but also fangs that could draw blood. You loved me in that garden, but not beyond it. And I don’t blame you. We see differently. We want different things. We long for different endings. That sunflower is just ash. I set it on fire after you plucked every petal off in your hunt. There is no new growth. It will remain black, and empty.
But I’m growing a new garden. And one day, it, too, will be beautiful. And mine.
(And now it is… )
Elisabeth Writing 