Because your birthday is coming up, I will write about our garden

We agree that someday, we will have a garden, and that garden will have: lots of green grass; a perennially mild sun, whose light plays on glass tabletops; five old, friendly trees with trunks as thick as years; nice, wooden chairs with brown cushions for seats; unread books kept in a woven basket; pink and red flowers that are perpetually in full bloom; a wisteria-wrapped bower.

And a huge, yellow-and-white striped umbrella, of course.

We agree that it will never rain in that garden unless we wish for it to rain, and only after we've put the books and the cushions away.

We agree that we will wear big, straw hats when we sit in that garden to talk, or read, and those hats will be identical. I have picked out an ensemble of long, white skirts and frilly white tops, and it's up to you whether you would choose to stick to the floral shirts you'd said you would wear for those daily breathers. It's not too late to change your mind.

We agree that I can laugh to my heart's delight at anything you say that I might find funny. My laughter will ring and rise and be loud, unlike how it is now--muffled, silent, almost-- while you're there, and I'm here.

We agree that the only thing we will argue about are the books we've already read; we will never argue about politics, or about how good, or bad, people can be, and you will never disagree with me when I say that life isn't always all that bad, because once upon a time, you had told me so yourself, and just because you are very sad right now doesn't mean you will always stay that way.

We agree that crying is allowed, but only if we are both there. We will each keep a hankie in our pockets.

We agree that there will always be warm tea and cold water. I will fix you fresh garden salads, and we will already have sworn off junk food, by then. You will absolutely not be allowed to eat anything that's bad for you--delivery of any sort doesn't reach that part of the world.

We agree that in that garden, we will have all the time in the world to talk about our favorite writers, the movies we've seen and want to see, poetry and loveliness, how complicated relationships can get, Woody Allen, Fiction. We will take our time making plans, like dropping by Paris for cups of coffee; watching the rain soak my sandal-strapped feet at an outdoor restaurant in Prague; hugging in a crowded mall for half an hour; attending a conference in, say, New York, and sharing a plane seat, just for laughs.

We agree that we will not wear watches; the sun, setting, will be the only clue that it is time to go indoors. We can always choose to stay until evening, however--there will be lamps, and candles, and watercress sandwiches.

We agree that in that garden, I will always be 18, and you, 24. There will be no such thing as aching limbs, or wrinkles, or brittle bones, or failing eyesight. Never.

We agree that we can keep coming back to that garden forever, or until one of us decides we don't want to, anymore. Even then, one of us just might still keep dropping by for a peek, to take the chance that the other might be sitting there, reading.


For L--

Because I do not know which scary place my thoughts will take me to.

This is how I know I'm not all right; this is how--and when--I know you're not with me: no matter how late the hour and no matter how drowsy I am, I feel almost afraid to go to bed without popping a pill.

You wonder.

You wonder about the storm, wonder about the things it may have taken with it when it went away. The dust, the prayers, the hours, the night, the morning. You wonder about roofs, floors, houses. You wonder about children. You wonder about sadness.

You wonder about rain, trickling down glass windows, wonder about rain, whipping at shut doors.

You wonder about overflowing rivers, wonder about books and plastic cups washed away by flood, wonder about wet, shivering skin, about fear, helplessness, loss. You wonder about hope beneath a torrential rain, hope against the wind's merciless lashing, hope despite them.

You wonder about words--do you describe the wind as "howling", "roaring", or "wailing"? You wonder about meaning; you wonder about meaninglessness.

You wonder about the trees: some, uprooted and fallen, streaking the grey streets green; the others, leaning low against the sides of roads, nodding even as the air momentarily keeps still. You wonder about puddles.

You wonder about the blank look on people's faces as they walk under a drizzle, you wonder about their thoughts.

You wonder about darkness and light, wonder about the correct way to strike a match to light a candle, and how there is loveliness in the sound. You wonder how you can think of loveliness at a time like this.

You wonder why the sun shines the way it does right now. You wonder why you wonder.

You wonder what will come next.