My small garden is mostly made of rock and dirt.
josh
Gazing through the grubby kitchen window, I am filled with daily regret. It was, once, a beautiful place of evergreen delights and seasonal bursts of romantic colour. Now it is a domain that is sadly lacking. It is untended, unkempt. A loving hand hasn’t graced its earth for a long time.
“Soon,” I whisper to its perimeters, “soon you will be tended to again. You will be restored.” I felt the weight of my own lies.
A knock at the door pulled me from my melancholia. Unexpected, not necessarily unwanted.
“Hello?” A tentative, but courageous, voice crept its way through the house. “Is anyone home? I just moved in a couple of doors down, and I’m doing the rounds!”
I cautiously made my way towards the front of the house and slid the peephole cover round in a circular motion. The action had a way of increasing my tensions, like a dial of anxiety I was unwittingly turning all the way up.
As I pressed my eye to the looking glass, I sensed a shift in the size of my pupils.
“Yes, yes, someone’s home.” As I spoke, something was blooming.
Through the grubby window, the first signs of spring.