I knew: “I’m crazy, and I need this garden.”
The ghostly flowers and trees, and a shadow on hands and knees in the corner.
October, and the wounded church had its back to the garden. It faced another way, and the garden breathed.
Someone works very hard. The gardener never rests. He or she prunes and clears and digs and sows and harvests and.
For the first time, Nest held my hand.
A Biblical Garden, Q. Plants from Scripture.
Hyssop.
Fig.
Sage.
The east/west path; the north/south path. The perimeter.
Broad beans and broom.
This is a place for slowness, Q.
Mint.
A place for patience.
Delphinium and heath.
Do you feel that—?
That’s slowness.
The birds and thorns.
Meadow saffron, rue, and rose.
Slowness is not the same thing as waiting.
Saffron and more saffron.
Mustard, dandelions—.
Slowness can last forever, Q, but waiting ends.
Cedar.
Myrtle—.
Waiting ends.
Her kiss came at the intersection of paths. The center of the garden and a surprise.
Thistle.
All the waiting ended here.
Mallow.
And the slowness began.
Almond.
We kissed, and the sun was bright. We took our clothes off.
Which one of us was smiling? Which one laughed?
Slowness.
No speed. And no Chimaera. No wildness or talk. No Angers. Almost no fear.
We weren’t two seventeen-year-olds having sex, or making love, or rutting like animals. Nest wasn’t losing her virginity. Don’t call it that. Don’t ever call it that. We were love.
We were love. Right there, in the dirt, in the middle of a garden, behind a burnt-out church.
The sun.
We were love. Everything else was sky.
Or maybe everything was earth—.
Hard to know.
But when we rested, we rested Between, not awake, not asleep, together.
Until Nest spoke.
HE BIDS HIS BELOVED BE AT PEACE
I hear the Shadowy Horses, their long manes a-shake,
Their hoofs heavy with tumult, their eyes glimmering white;
The North unfolds above them clinging, creeping night,
The East her hidden joy before the morning break,
The West weeps in pale dew and sighs passing away,
The South is pouring down roses of crimson fire:
O vanity of Sleep, Hope, Dream, endless Desire,
The Horses of Disaster plunge in the heavy clay:
Beloved, let your eyes half close, and your heart beat
Over my heart, and your hair fall over my breast,
Drowning love’s lonely hour in deep twilight of rest,
And hiding their tossing manes and their tumultuous feet.
That’s the poem by William Butler Yeats my mother sent me to find. The poem to answer my stupid question, whether or not she would have married again if my father had died. It’s my favorite poem. It’s the poem you would recite for me from memory, right now, if you could, if you knew it. We could say it together, for each other, two voices.
I want your voice, Q, while we’re lying here in the path, in the light, in the middle of flowers and thorns and fruit and.
I want to sleep with you. Until we get cold and have to stand up and walk the ten miles home.
Why aren’t we cold?
You’re putting me to sleep, Q. I can feel it.
But I want to hear you say my name. Please.
Remember our slowness—.
My whole name. Beginning, middle, and end, like you believe in its story and everything I’ve said this morning.
The miles—.
All of them—.
Between again, and I could barely make out Nest’s sleeptalk.
I want to hear you say my name, Q.
Slowly, name by name by name.
Eleanor.
Nest.
Fitzgerald.
But I have to sleep—.
Let me sleep a little while first. Like this. My head on your chest.
I won’t sleep long. I promise. The sun will disappear, and we’ll get cold, and.
I’ll only dream once.
I don’t remember what happened after Nest fell asleep. She must have woken up, but did we feel the cold? Did we miss the sun?
Did I ever speak her name?
Did we pick ourselves up off the ground and fix our clothes? Did we rob the garden, steal bitter herbs and saffron? Did we ever eat figs?
Did we make it over the fence and reenter the city?
Even if she let me talk, did I only listen?
Did we hold hands, mile after mile, until home? Or did I carry Nest the whole way?
If I carried her, I promise, I never once put her down.
For Michèle
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Ten Miles One Way Page 12