Home: Part 17

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for awhile.

June 1958 

My mother kept a small garden on the side of the house. In the spring an assortment of tulips emerged from bulbs she had planted over the years. Each year she planted more to replace those that had grown too tired to bloom. "They give me hope," she once said. "I know that no matter how hard the winter is, each spring there'll be life and color there." Then, later, my sister Cindy and I were assigned the task of planting vegetables when the flowers had faded.

"Not so close together, Cindy," my mother said from her lawn chair as Cindy and I dug holes in the dirt. "Especially the tomatoes. They'll need a lot of room later in the summer." 

"It's never right, is it?" Cindy muttered as she filled one hole and dug another in another spot. I didn't say anything. I was quite happy with my hands in the dirt. I liked the way it felt, its odor. Cindy was at a point in life where she was aggravated by everything my parents said, and I knew she wanted to be anywhere else but on her knees in the garden, our mother giving us instructions from her chair.

"But they're good when they're finally ripe," I said.

"They're tomatoes," Cindy said. "We can buy them in the store and they taste just as good. This is just a way for Mom to keep us busy now that school's out. She's used to having the house to herself most of the time, and we kind of cramp her style."

Cindy might have been right, but I was content nonetheless. "We're almost done," I said. I set a small tomato plant into the new hole Cindy had dug.

When we finally stood to admire our work, I was happy with the symmetry of things, the even spacing of plants. "It looks very nice," my mother said as she joined us. "You two work well together." 

"I'll clean up," I said and began gathering the garden tools. 

Cindy walked away without saying another word, and my mother watched her go. "Thank you," my mother said, and she patted me on the shoulder before heading into the house.

In the garage, I hung the tools on holders above my father's workbench. The garage was dark and musty, and I enjoyed the smells there as much as I enjoyed the smell of dirt. Outside again, I dragged the hose to the garden and watered each plant. Trying to picture how they'd be full-grown at the end of the summer, I wondered if the plants gave my mother the same sense of hope as the tulips did, or if they were somehow different.