Our Garden

“I‘m sure,” he replied, face all smiles and encouragement.  The Don I knew in our teenage years looked so different from the Don of today, but he was still the sweet, young boy I knew so well.  “No problem; it’ll be easy.”

“This isn’t a walk in the park, y’know.”  I bent over our patch in the garden.  Feeling the warm, earthen soil beneath my fingers gave me a certain a peace.  I loved the smell of moist dirt, the taste of fresh air in the mornings, the enchanting glitter of dew-encrusted plants in the gray dawn….  My limbs felt almost too weak, however, almost too tired to continue their ceaseless work.  ‘It won’t be that much longer,’ I thought to myself.

“Oh, I know.”  His smile softened with what I presumed was bitter remorse or grief.  Don knelt beside me and rested his hand in the crook of my elbow “But I’ll be here for you, the entire time.”

I smiled as he helped me to my feet, but I stumbled and he caught me.  “Any day now,” I said.  We made our way to the porch swing.  It was welcome rest to my aching body in the midst of an uphill battle.  Don put his arm around me and pillowed my head with his shoulder.  “The cancer’s everywhere.”

“You told me.”

I nodded and closed my eyes.  “I’ve had fun, though.”

“I know.”  His voice cracked.

“Just take care of our garden for me,” I said.

“I wouldn‘t dream of doing anything else.” 

“Good.”  I opened my eyes for the last time, savoring my surroundings.  A bird sang its melancholy cries, and I caught its sleek, gray body flitting overhead: a mourning dove, heralding my last earthly moments….

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