Garden Song – Phoebe Bridges
day passed in a blur, and before I knew it, I was home.
Crashing into the couch in the living room, I took a moment to relax, finally feeling the weight of the day release. I’d moved back home over the summer. I’d been spending all my days here anyway, staying close to Dad and helping him with whatever he needed.
Hanna wasn’t entirely convinced of the plan when I told her. She’d worried that being back would be too much. And while it was hard sometimes being in the space that was so strongly connected to her, it was also where I felt closest to her, closest to the happy memories that I was trying to hold onto so tightly. I didn’t want to be anywhere else.
Looking around the living room I let myself linger in the memories for a moment, reminiscing on cuddling up on this very couch with Mom watching The Great British Baking Show while Dad was away at work, the baking we’d done together when I was a kid only to nearly burn down the house, the hours sat beside her learning piano, my fingers aching.
Meatball, my mom’s black Pomeranian, jumped up onto the couch with me, forcing a big smile as I looked at her cute little face. She was a small fluffy dog I’d thought was completely ridiculous at first–especially with a name like Meatball–but I’d soon come to love her, especially being here so often. You never felt lonely with her around.
“What are you doing sitting in the dark?” My father’s head popped out from the kitchen, the most beautiful aroma of garlic and rosemary floating in the air.
“Oh nothing, I just got home,” I replied, watching as he stepped into the room and turned on a corner light, illuminating the dark space. I turned my attention back to the small dog, giving into her small demands for pets and ran my hand over her fluff.
“Be careful, she’s shedding, you’ll be covered in that little bastard’s black hair before you know it,” Dad swore. I let out a gasp.
“Meatball, he didn’t mean to call you such a bad name! Such a rude name!” I cried, replacing the pillow with the little dog and squeezing her to my body.
“Well, maybe if she didn’t want to earn such a name she’d stop eating my shoes!” He shook his fist at the dog in frustration, but I just rolled my eyes.
Dad vs Meatball was a well battled war in this house–with the small toy-like dog winning over and over again. Luckily for her, Meatball had cuteness on her side and after a few weeks even Dad had ended up harboring a secret love for her. I swore he loved her like a child. The dog might’ve eaten better than me some nights. He’d never wanted a pet. I’d gone almost every day of my childhood begging my parents for one, only for Mom to go out and adopt one the day I graduated from college without so much as a discussion with my dad. He had started with ‘the dog isn’t coming inside the house, she can live in the garden’ to the dog sleeping on the bed by the end of the week.
“Maybe if you put your shoes away, she wouldn’t get to eat them.”
Dad looked straight at me, a sad smile on his face, and I knew what he wanted to say–but neither of us would dare.
That’s exactly what your mother would say.
“What’s for dinner?” I asked, putting the dog back on the floor and pushing myself up from the cushions.
“Coq Au Vin.”
Dad was a born chef, which was lucky because Mom and I had absolutely no sense in the kitchen. I could make grilled cheese, but that was about the limit of my skills. I could help with chopping and basic tasks, but the actual cooking had always been left to Dad, and he was happy to do it. Which was great because the alternative was food poisoning.
I followed him back into the kitchen, the warm air filled with the delicious smell of the chicken. Looking at him again, I noticed that his clothes were still a little loose fitting but overall, he was looking better. Dad had really struggled that first month. He’d stopped eating completely, barely left the house. I think having me around to feed had really helped, giving him a reason to find his passion for something again. But now he’d taken over my lunches, announcing that he wouldn’t let me eat such processed crap (his words not mine; I loved that processed crap) while I lived under this roof. I’d been thankful that he wasn’t aware of my college diet that primarily consisted of Cool Ranch Doritos and instant mac and cheese.
Without saying anything else to each other, we fell into our usual rhythm. He served up the dinner, while I set the table and poured us each a small glass of red wine. We both sat down together at the table, like we had done for so many years. On bad days, we’d eat silently, all too aware of the empty chair to our left. Today, however, we ate with comfortable conversation. He asked about my classes, if I had much grading to do, any trouble with any of the students, and I asked him how he’d spent his day.
On Thursdays and Fridays, he worked at a local bistro. He’d retired a few years ago but had found it too hard to give up completely. He’d always come home glowing, and I’d always asked him why he didn’t try to pick up more shifts. But he’d shrug me off, calling himself an old man. My heart squeezed too tightly when he said that.
“Are you finished?” I asked, indicating to his nearly empty plate. He nodded, and I stood to take our plates to the dishwasher when he gruffly coughed, clearing his throat.
“Olive, I was thinking about your mom’s things,” he started.
“What about them?” I slowly sat back down, watching him as his gaze lowered to the table, that all too familiar fog of sadness drifting over him. I hated the way his shoulders dipped when he spoke about her. He used to smile when he saw her, now even just mentioning her was painful.
I can’t even remember the last time I heard her name spoken aloud.
“I was hoping we could go through them. You know her, she kept everything, and I want to make a little space,” he added, wiping a little at his mustache.
“I… I don’t know.” My full stomach churned at the thought, the very idea of going through her things; opening the door to her study and flicking through her notes, seeing her handwriting, sorting out her books. “Can I think about it?”
I wanted out, away from this conversation, from this pressure that was rising so high it was getting harder and harder to breathe in and out, squeezing all the air out of the room. Did he want to go through her clothes? What would we do with them? How… how could we know what to keep, where to put everything?
He nodded in response, his lips pressing together in a thin line of disappointment. I wanted to make him happy, tell him I could do this with him, but everything was screaming at me to get out, to avoid that question before I exploded.
I stood up, the rush causing my head to burst with dizziness as I tried to walk on unsteady legs to the dishwasher.
“Are you okay?” Dad asked, his voice still wavering. I placed the dishes on top of the counter before gripping it for support.
“I-I’m fine. It’s just been a long day. I’ll probably go upstairs and get some painting done.”
His eyebrows furrowed, the firm wrinkles in his forehead creasing with worry. I prepared myself for more questions, to have to fight him to leave me be, but instead he settled.
“I understand. I’ll take Meatball for a walk and let you get some peace.”
I thanked him as I headed upstairs, the dizziness easing only slightly as I left, only to be replaced quickly with guilt. I gripped the stairs railing too tightly as I climbed, anger at myself raging inside the pit of my stomach. I needed to be stronger, needed to be a better daughter. I was supposed to be here for him but instead I was slinking off to my room to hide.
I nearly let myself climb into bed, the temptation to bundle myself away and hide overwhelming. But instead, the blank canvas I’d set up in the corner of my room caught my eye. I sat down opposite the clean white surface. How many weeks ago had I set this up?
Closing my eyes, I saw the white hot rage. At Ben, that smirking jerk, and how even after I’d pointed out he was in the wrong room, he’d stayed and refused to change. At the school, the frustration of the job. At…at Dad. I didn’t want to go through her things. Couldn’t he see I wasn’t ready, that it was too soon to be sorting her things out?
I felt around the rage, trying to see if I could find any inspiration in it. Painting had been my therapy, my outlet, for years. Through every emotion I’d painted, even if it was terrible. It felt like if I could get it out of my body and onto a canvas, then I could see the problem, find the solution, and sort it out. But that was until I met grief.
And instead of that well of inspiration, all I found was an impenetrable brick wall.
I gave up, abandoning hope of finding that flicker. I’d never had a dry spell like this, not ever. In college, I’d found completing the painting assignments the easiest to do, the path always clear on what I wanted to do, wanted to show and convey. It had all been too easy, and now it felt completely and utterly impossible.
The ache in my heart was all too much. I missed that feeling of getting what was inside of me out into the world, the painting explaining how I was feeling better than I could ever put into words.
But for now, it all had to stay inside. Bottled up, till I could get past this block. If I ever did get past this.
She wasn’t coming back. Maybe the inspiration wasn’t either.
