The Tended Garden - friends of the orinda library

The Tended Garden
The metallic clanging of an alarm clock pulls the old man from his slumber. The
device reads 7:00 a.m. He does not languish in his sleeping state and gets out of bed
with the mechanical air of somebody who has woken up in the exact same manner
countless times before. Only a few minutes passes before he is seated at his kitchen
table; his bowl filled with generic brand cereal, the same type he always has. Then it is
time for his morning walk. The man pulls on a jacket over his thinning hair, and adjusts
the spectacles upon his nose. He walks two short blocks around the neighborhood.
He wanders by his neighbors’ yards, trimmed to perfection. Presently, the old
man remembers his own neglected garden. It must have been a day at least since he
last pruned it. He makes a mental note to tend to it upon his arrival home and waves in
greeting to a passerby. The man continues the rest of his walk alone. Yelling birds in
the trees above annoys him slightly. He can’t understand what they’re saying, so
instead the old man imagines decoding the conversation of chirps.
“Nice day out, isn’t it?”
“Quite.”
“So how are things?”
“Oh you know, full nest!”
The exchange ends abruptly when the old man realizes he has reached his own front
door. He lets himself in. Not pausing to remove his shoes, he settles on the couch to
watch a television show. He has little interest in the people displayed on the screen, but
still sits and stares. The man has the strangest feeling he is forgetting to do something.
He can’t remember what. Soon, he grows bored and decides it is time for a walk.
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The man pulls on a jacket over his thinning hair, and adjusts the spectacles upon
his nose. He walks two short blocks around the neighborhood.
He wanders by his neighbors’ yards, trimmed to perfection. Presently, the old
man remembers his own neglected garden. It must have been a day at least since he
pruned it. He makes a mental note to tend to it upon his arrival home. The birds
chirping in the trees above him annoys him slightly. He can’t understand what they’re
saying, so instead the old man imagines decoding the conversation of chirps.
“Nice day out, isn’t it?”
“Quite.”
“So how are things?”
“Oh you know, full nest!”
The conversation ends abruptly when the old man realizes he has reached his
own front door. He lets himself in. Not pausing to remove his shoes, he settles on the
couch to watch the television show. He has little interest in the people displayed on the
screen, but sits and stares. The man has the strangest feeling he is forgetting to do
something. He can’t remember what. Soon, he grows bored and decides it is time for
bed.
He dreams, as he always does. Usually he is accompanied with the strange
sense the dreams are real, or that somehow they used to be. But by morning the
stories always seem to slip away.
A young boy scrambles into class just before the metallic clanging of the bell has
the power to mark him tardy. The teacher immediately slips into her usual droning,
writing a series of arithmetic problems on the blackboard. But he has no time for math
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today. His gaze settles on the open window to his right. The pale morning sun
illuminates the landscape, touching on a few older kids milling about, a soccer field, an
adjacent football field; and the dirt path circling it. The town’s annual one lap race will
be held there shortly. The boy vividly remembers last year, it was a grand occasion; with
everybody in attendance, games for the little kids, and ice cream served at the end.
Feet tapping a pattern on the floor, he can hardly sit still for his anticipation. The boy
catches Sophia’s eye, the girl that sits next to him, and she gives him a quiet smile.
With her blond ringlets and bright green eyes, he hopes she’ll be at the afternoon race.
A medal around his neck may improve his chances on a conversation with her, he
reasons. The day inches on, and turns to years; he can’t pay attention in any of his
classes. Finally, after watching the large hand on the clock take a century to complete
one circle, the day is over, and he hurries up to the track.
“Good luck!”, his mother cries when she sees him, planting a kiss on his cheek
before he can scurry out of her grasp. Soon the event is filled with small children
enjoying the festival on the field, proud parents who appear more nervous than their
participating offspring, and other townsfolk who have turned up for the occasion. In
contrast to his school day, the hour before the race is gone in the blink of an eye. It will
soon start, and the kids line up on the white chalk line drawn in the dust. The boy is
nervous and notes that he is not youngest and he is not the oldest, nor is he the biggest
or the smallest. He paws the ground, and positions his feet.
“To your marks…”
“Get set... “
“Go!”
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The boys set out, like a harem of zebras galloping across the plains
Arms pump, Runners clump, Knees drive, Legs strive, He begins to tire, Face
starts to perspire,
But still he runs.
Breathing hard, Miles per yard, Runners pass, His legs are made of glass,
But still he runs.
Until he flies, His body cries, But he can’t hear, The finish is near, Feet hardly
touch the ground, Passing runners with each bound, The going is tough, But he
has called pain’s bluff, And he knows that he can persevere, Feels no fear.
The young boy extends his leg, breaks the tape, the race is over. He has done it.
After collecting his medal, and his breath, he walks over to his beaming mother. She
hugs him, and this time he embraces back. The young boy is happy, and he is happy
that she is happy. After a congratulatory conversation, he walks toward the field to
retrieve his belongings. A flash of blond hair pops into his peripheral view
“Good job”, she says.
“Thanks Sophia”, the young boy answers.
Hours later the annual event is over, and the pair had spent the afternoon talking
and enjoying the festivities. They planned to get ice cream together sometime later that
week.
The old man awakens to the alarm. 7:00 a.m. Cereal for breakfast. Morning walk. TV.
Walk again. Then he reads the comics. Later in the evening, he microwaves some
leftover pasta from two dinners ago. The man writes himself a note to go grocery
shopping the next day. Then nightfalls and he sleeps. He dreams.
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Nurses and doctors dressed in plain blue scrubs adorn the hallways, yelling out
in medical jargon or taking hurried notes on their carried clipboards. The young man
had always felt uneasy in hospitals, somebody could be breathing their last breath on
the floor above you and you would be completely unaware. But he doesn't have time to
dwell. The man is there with purpose, and moves quickly under the flourescent lights,
careful not to spill the coffee cups in his hands. The day is June 3. He has new life to
attend to.
“How are you feeling Sophia?”, he asks.
There are bags under her eyes and her hair is pulled into an unwashed bun. Still
she is beautiful, strong. Gently he takes the tiny body swaddled in blankets from her
arms. His daughter. The man’s large hands envelops her, protects her. He touches
her little fingers and toes, admires the beauty reserved for a new existence. A smile
plays on his daughter’s lips, and under a wires of red hair, peeks two brilliant orbs of
Arctic blue. Her eyes are from her father, but they are more pale blue than his. And her
hair; a different color red than all else in existence. The young man only wishes his
mother could be there to see her.
Still, he is filled with a feeling unknown to him.
“Grace”, the young man whispers, parental awe creeping into his voice for the
first time in his life. He lies, side by side with his wife, cradling a delicate life he must
protect, whom he vows to never let down.
When the old man walks out to breakfast he sees a strange person sitting at the
table. His features seem familiar but he can’t quite place him. The man wonders what
this person is doing in his house, but gets the feeling it would be wrong to question him.
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They talk a little. About sports, about the weather. The strange man seems to know
him but he can’t figure out why. He resolves he will figure it out later. Then the person
tells him they are going to the doctor today. Again the old man wonders as to why, but
doesn't question. Walking up to the car however a wave of fear rolls over him. His
head hurts, his knee tingles. He smells copper. Something is wrong but he doesn't
know what. The unknown man nods, he seems to understand. Reassured, the old man
clambers in the car. He grips his seat with white knuckles the whole drive. After exiting
the cramped car though, he feels a lot better. Soon he finds himself in a well-furnished
office, speaking to a doctor in a white coat. The old man wonders why the strange
visitor is still with him. Then he wonders how he knows his medical information. The
man watches the doctors lips move, and hears him throw around words like “accident”,
and “damaged beyond repair”. The words are sharp but the rest is muddled, like it is
coming from underwater. The voices sound too loud and too quiet at the same time,
and everything seems very far away and insignificant. It is as if the old man is
observing through a telescopes lense somebody else's life, happening on some distant
planet. Shortly thereafter, he finds himself at home again. Together the two men sit in
his living room. The man whose name he has decided starts with an ‘F’ lets out a
frustrated sigh. Then he points to a medal sitting on the windowsill, next to a small
potted plant. It is dusty and he asks what it is from. The old man has no answer. The
strangest urge to cry comes over him. He is filled with an unexplained feeling of loss
and joy simultaneously. For a long time, he sits and stares at the neglected medal.
Then the other man gets up to leave. Strangely he gives the old man a hug, and tells
him that he loves him. The old man wonders why he did that. Then he wonders if he
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meant it. He sits and stares and cries even though he does not know why and then he
cries because he does not know why and falls asleep in the chair.
The man tightens his tie and hurriedly pulls his suit jacket on. His wife and kids
are still asleep and he is late to work. He shoves a last morsel of toast into his mouth,
gulps down some coffee, and hurries out the door. The man spends the morning sitting
in traffic. The afternoon is filled with meetings, hurried appointments, frantic employees,
and demanding bosses. The evening entails more traffic. Then dinner with his family.
“How was your day”, he asks his daughter, Grace.
“Good.” she answers, the monosyllabic response lined with resentment. The
man had long since stopped trying to discover what he had done wrong, but still couldn't
look at her red hair and blue eyes without seeing the little girl who would wait at the door
and jump into his arms when he arrived home from work. Even if she didn't always
seem angry at him, he has no idea what they would have left to converse about. Most
of the time he wonders if he even really knows his own daughter at all. The man
spends the rest of the night watching TV with his wife, both too tired to speak much. As
he is staring up at the ceiling that night he decides his family still loves each other very
much; but that everyone is simply preoccupied with their own lives, and convinces
himself they'll still have plenty of time to reconnect when everything settles down. He
can’t be quite sure of course. And even though he has a nice house, and a well-paying
job, and a family he loves, he wonders if he is really happy. More truthfully, he wonders
if he ever will be happy.
The old man wakes up before his alarm. The date on the clock reads June 3.
He is happy and excited, and of course can’t quite place why, but doesn't ponder it. He
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hasn’t felt so content in a long time. The man decides today is a day for a real
breakfast, and concocts a meal of scrambled eggs and bacon. He opens the door for
his morning walk. Sunlight dances on his leathered face, the air is tinged with a slight
scent of flowers and freshly mowed grass. Perhaps his pleasant mood can be
attributed to the warm weather, he decides. The old man walks along the street. He
drinks in the world surrounding him, noticing the vibrant colors splashed upon life’s
canvas. The trees posses details he has never noticed before; white cherry blossoms
tinged with a delicate pink, scarred bark paying homage to their long lives. Everything
seems new, and undeniably beautiful. The wind makes the leaves whisper, and birds
cry in their cryptic language. The old man does not try and understand. Instead he
allows himself to be enveloped in a symphony of sound that he knows is not meant for
him, but appreciates it nonetheless
When he returns home, the man decides to walk out back and water his garden.
For some reason it is still alive; flourishing even. He prunes and trims. After a short
while, he realizes he is not alone. A woman is bent among the flowers, wearing a large
hat to shade herself from the sun. He guesses she works in gardening, and assumes
she has the wrong address.
“I think you have the wrong house”, he politely states.
The woman stands up, gracefully dusts herself off, and turns towards him.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, a smile filled with sorrow playing on her lips.
And for some reason her ice-blue eyes are filled with tears.
She leaves, and the old man doesn’t give her too much more thought.
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Except for deciding that she was beautiful and trying to place her where he had
seen before her Arctic blue eyes and shocking red hair.
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