April's Garden
by Amanda Book
An odd kind of ruins. Not entirely disjointed, more like relics planted into strawberry seeds. The back gate hangs open, like a question. A cavern dips into the lawn, where embers may warm your toes, or melt your shoe. Today, mud sinks into the grass where a hickory once stood, and my brother tells me about our childhood as though it’s a religious text— buried in the dirt, where we search for artifacts to prove our faith. But sometimes grass dissolves into stone and welds into unfamiliar shapes. Sometimes it becomes so muddled with plaster and sand, you can’t remember where it came from. Sometimes time shifts with memories and a little brown dog might escape through the fence that still sways wide. And maybe we’ll never see him again. But for now, sweet syrup drips down my chin, as I pick peaches from my mother’s garden, where we might sit together, and you might believe me. About the hickory tree.
Spring 2020 / 33