She spun her heel, her flurry movements kicking up the autumn leaves. “See, Kennyo?” she smiled at him. “Just like home.”
By home, she meant like the clobber of wood that held up a shack, like the vegetation that hid him in it’s shadows. This was not home at all. “Quite a mischievous young lady you are,” Kennyo muttered under his breath. Even if I do love you so.
She laughed, and it was the spring wind gracing him in summer. “Not at all.” she ran to him then, her legs looking like they could overcome the limits of her kimono. He looked away for one instance, red leaves decorating themselves in his cheeks. He had thought of something unsightly towards the innocent lady. May God forgive my soul as she does mine. Still, she looked not unlike an excited puppy running his way.
She sat next to him on the veranda, admiring the….. everything. The skies, the flowers, the scent of autumn that came with the markets selling seasonal snacks, her favourite mochi. She just loved everything, and he…..he used to be like that. Perhaps one day it would return to him.
“The garden. I….” she trailed off, and there was a hint of desperation and uncertainty in her voice that pulled him towards her. “I wanted it to remind you of home. Of….your place in the forest, surrounded by nature and the things you love.” Silly girl. Foolish, idealistic girl. “How about it?”
“It is….” How to word it best in a way that wasn’t hurtful? “A meaningful attempt.”
“Oh.” There was the sound of her wilting, and he knew he couldn’t take the words back. “Let me explain.” She perked up at this, and it really did resemble a mimosa plant uncurling.
“It is a meaningful attempt, but my place is with you.” There was no doubt the tragedy that had struck them both – the losses, the hardships he’d put her through. He could not apologise for his mistakes. He had no right to. Instead; “Thank you. For staying with me. For this garden.” For looking for diamonds in thickets, finding the fish that swam upstream. For finding the beauty of a rugged forest and ancient vines and loving it, still.
It was a gift that they had crossed paths, let alone to be cherished by the one person who would deserve more than what he could manage.
“It is my pleasure,” she’d said, a smile like roses on her lips. To see him grow, to nurture his ache and the nightmares and cradle him with gentle arms and let the wind take care of his howls.
This world would save him. She believed it so. This garden was both of their safe haven, and he dismissed the autumn on his cheeks and pressed his lips to hers.