A Dying Garden

It’s crazy how the garden hardly looks beautiful anymore. I let the grass grow out, convinced length was the missing piece. Yes, that’s what I thought, that the short grass just wasn’t right. The azaleas are blue now. I’ve always admired them from afar, and now they grow in my garden, beautiful but out of place. They don’t look so beautiful in my garden. I’m certainly not a careful gardener, but I did try my best. Maybe it’s because the fence is pale, weather beaten from hurricane season. Another coating of lacquer on that damned fence may serve the entire garden well. But even that promised coat of lacquer can’t fix the trees that bear no fruit. The juicy, and bright oranges I dreamed about are entirely imaginary. I’ve always yearned for tall trees, with thick foliage to host the birds that sing so sweetly in the morning. There are no birds singing in my garden, though. If they are there, they’re silent.

I remember the tingly, fizzy excitement when I first started working on the garden. An earthen crop of my very own, with fruit trees and flourishing flowers. My heart’s deepest desire has always been to nurture. And yet, as I look into the mirror, the woman who stares back at me is as pale and weatherbeaten as the fence. She does not sing sweetly, like the birds that are everywhere but in her garden. She bears no fruit. The woman who stares back at me is as ugly as her dying garden.