The Garden
Flowers had always been a part of your life. Few know how it all began.
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For @pearl-kite, as part of the gift exchange! I hope I got Gale right :) Thanks everyone for participating and for creating such wholesome gifts!
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The garden was beautiful. Lush trees stood with trunks sturdy and tall, branches bent in salute to the flowers that bloomed in the comfort of its shade. There were the dark purple ones you could identify as hydrangeas, the yellow ones you knew were sunflowers, and the whites – daisies – that added a layer of peace to the otherwise colourful landscape.
You would watch every day, as an old lady tottered out to trim the branches and weeds. She would speak to the flowers as if they were her own, and smile at the bees and dragonflies that hopped from bloom to bloom.
You’re unsure why that sight made you smile, just as you’re unsure what kept drawing you to that house.
After all, it wasn’t particularly accessible (considering where you live), nor was it the first time you’ve seen flowers. And it certainly wasn’t right to spy on someone like this.
But you couldn’t help yourself. Couldn’t help coming back to that garden; couldn’t help watching and chuckling as it grew more beautiful with time. Couldn’t help the fond spark of affection each time a tiny smile graced the lady’s cheeks whenever a new blossom caught her sight.
One day, you would watch as she dug the soil, fingers deft and spirit light. A light brush of her mind revealed a bubbling spark of excitement and anticipation, and you would watch as she let a handful of seeds fall into the damp soil. Weeks later, when the first hint of a leaf finally peeked out from beneath the soil, you would find your smile mirroring her own.
The young plants grew rapidly. Their stems grew taller and stronger, their leaves fuller and greener. And when they finally broke out in full bloom, when the garden was lit up with a sea of red, you plucked up your courage to ask her a question. When no one was looking, you dropped a note onto the well-worn path, a hasty scribble upon paper of soft blue:
What are those red flowers called? They’re beautiful.
The next morning, you received your reply. Nestled upon the fertile soil, right at the foot of a flower of the brightest red, was cursive typography upon peach paper:
They’re poppies :) They certainly are, aren’t they?
That day, you left the garden with the hint of red capturing your dreams.
While you would have loved to visit the garden as often as you wanted, it was alas not to be.
Life was, after all, never meant to stay the same. (You would now that well too.)
You’re no stranger to change – you never have been and never would be – and you knew that things would never go back to what they once had been. Not since you donned the black and blue suit. Not since a man who could throw lightning from his fingertips deemed fit to call you his friend.
But sooner than you thought; faster than you had anticipated, your life becomes a whirlwind of lightning and new faces; of training and friendship and new memories. And as your responsibilities grew, your visits to the garden became less frequent.
And one day, when you sit back and think on how far you have come, you realise that it has been more than a year. You take off right after, mind flustered and buzzing with anticipation, feet guiding you where you know you must go. But when you finally reach the garden that once was, you realise that it is no more.
The trees, the flowers and the poppies – they are all long gone. As is the old lady whose smile you never knew how much you’d miss.
It is only then you realise that you’d never thought to ask her name.
That is not the end of the story, however.
Months pass. Your mind doesn’t let you forget, but just as things change with time, you find yourself growing fond of the man who you’ve now fought beside in countless battles. Who you’ve grown to love and trust. Who (God knows why) looks at you as if you’re somehow precious to him. Who you can’t help but look back at with the same affection in your gaze. And it would seem that the feeling is mutual, for one day he invites you to visit his mother’s home.
It isn’t a courtesy he grants everyone. You’re honoured that you’ve been counted amongst the select few.
“You’d love it,” he tells you with an easy grin. “I’ve seen the poppies on your windowsill. Wait till you see my mother’s garden.”
Little did you know how much of a surprise it would be.
And when you first set sights upon the garden, you pause. Because the lush garden before you is covered with poppies. Rows and rows of poppies, red and yellow and purple, a painting so real and beautiful that it sends you spiralling back to the time you first arrived in Los Diablos. To a little old lady and her garden. To a beauty so intimately familiar.
And when its owner steps out of the house, you realise why.
The same old lady is walking towards you, the same easy smile that once captivated you bright upon her face. The same smile that Ricardo always wears.
She doesn’t recognise you, not that you’d expect her to.
“Hello there,” she says. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
And you know exactly what she’s talking about – and what she is not.
She’s talking about you as Sidestep, as Charge’s partner, as her child’s best friend and the first person he might have truly liked in a long time. Not as the person who’d asked her about her poppies all those years ago.
“Your poppies are beautiful,” you say. Your voice is thick in your throat.
“They certainly are, aren’t they?” Elena Ortega echoes. Her smile so innocent and welcoming crinkles the edges of her eyes. She looks older now. Wiser now. And yet still the same lady whose garden you’d fallen in love with all those years ago. Still the same lady who smiled at the bees and dragonflies and thanked them for breathing life into her growing blooms. Whose grace you fell in love with and who you regretted never getting to know.
It’s funny how life comes full circle sometimes, isn’t it?
“They are,” you hear yourself saying. You duck your head, so she would not see the tears in your eyes. “You’ve a really beautiful garden, ma’am.”
“Please,” she laughs and ruffles your hair. “Call me Tía.”
And maybe she won’t ever know how much that means to you. Maybe she won’t ever know how much meeting her again, like this, means to you.
But maybe it’s a story you can share with her another day. And maybe, like the poppies that continue to bloom despite the quakes and the nanosurge; like the seemingly fragile trees and flowers that still grow strong and tall; like a wish that went unanswered for years but has now somehow found its way into your life again – maybe you can let yourself believe in life’s miracles.
Maybe you can let yourself believe that things will be okay.
