The Gardener
Each day The Gardener went to tend her plants—each step calculated—right, left, right, right again. First the beets, and then the radishes, and always the carrots. Each had to be given special care, after all, the soil wasn’t what it used to be, but The Gardener still loved what she did. First the beets, and then the radishes, and always the carrots, and then back out: left, and left again, right, left. Every so often, a bushy-tailed squirrel would crawl up to the edge of the greenhouse. The Gardener always welcomed her company. The two would sit on the ashen grass together, breathing in the fresh air (but not too much, as it would cause respiratory issues), all while admiring the stark and barren landscape around them. The greenhouse was an oasis of sorts. Sometimes they would have to sit inside the greenhouse to avoid the acid. It was calming though, the patter of the rain on the glass, and the smell, the smell in the air was divine; that’s what she remembered, what she chose to believe—those late nights in the city, rain pouring down. Lovers tangled between sheets. The patter of the rain on the glass. Out the window, neon lights illuminated the streets below; they had a certain allure about them. Lovers huddled under umbrellas, race down the avenue, and into a haberdashery, splashing in puddles with rain-boots tall enough they could nearly scrape the deep, dark sky. Soon enough it was calm again, and The Gardener would bid her fair friend adieu, and invite him to come back any time he wished. And he would thank her for the refuge, and the wholesome food, and the clean water (which was hard to come by). And so, The Gardener went to tend her plants, day after day. Right, left, right, right again. Some days it was unbearably hot in the greenhouse; The Gardener often wondered if her thermometer worked. Many days it soared past 40 degrees, little Mercury bubbling higher and higher as if he had somewhere to be. When she was in school many years ago, she was taught about The Greenhouse Effect. She never fully understood the concept as her parents often told her it was a conspiracy theory. Nevertheless, she attributed this to her calamity. After all, she was in a greenhouse. She was also often perplexed at the term “greenhouse” as her plants were hardly ever green. Even her beautiful succulents were shriveled up within two months of planting. That’s why The Gardener loved her root vegetables the most. Despite the poor soil quality, they were safe—buried deep within the earth. The earth was very comforting to The Gardener. She felt at home there, mucking around in the dirt. Occasionally, she would even find a nightcrawler! She was fascinated by its bulbous, squirming body. The earth is where people were rumored to go when it happened. Descending deep into the ground. And despite others’ best efforts, most ended up in the ground nonetheless. Bones and skulls and muscles and all. The Gardener was fortunate and tried not to dwell on these macabre thoughts much. So among the shattered pots and broken glass of the greenhouse, The Gardener tends to her plants. Just as humanity had.
Right,
left,
right,
right again.
