Margie dragged the last of the empty paint buckets to her garage. She would take them out to the curb later. Back inside, she flopped on her couch and stared up at the ceiling. She nodded in satisfaction. Painting all her ceilings had been the right choice. It took three long weeks, but what else would she have done with that time?
A little voice told Margie exactly what she could have done with that time. For a second Margie considered knocking on Stella’s door. They had been neighbors on Hummingbird Lane for over 10 years and best friends ever since. Well, except for the last month.
Margie still wasn’t sure what happened. Half-hoping, half -joking she asked if Stella would consider chopping down her weeping willow tree. Margie’s new pool turned out to be one big hassle, especially the daily cleaning of debris. Most of it came from Stella’s weeping willow.
“How dare you,” Stella yelled. “Matthew planted that tree 30 years ago when we moved in!”
“I’m sorry,” Margie told her. “I didn’t think….”
“That’s right you didn’t. Just like you didn’t think when you decided to get that piece of shit pool in the first place.”
Their fight escalated after that with a lot of sweeping generalizations, over-exaggerations, and dredging up of the past as is wont to happen when two people who have a long history and love each other get into a fight. Margie and Stella had not spoken since then, so Margie had plenty of free time on her hands. Enough, to paint her chipped and cracked ceilings which Stella had pointed out made her house look run down. As Margie continued to stare at her ceiling, her phone rang.
“Margie? It’s Sophia. Listen, I know you and my mom haven’t talked much lately, but could you check on her?”
“Is Stella okay?
“No. It’s my dad – he was diagnosed with cancer a month ago.”
“Jesus,” Margie breathed. “I had no idea. I’ll call her.”
“Margie, it was fast spreading. The doctors said there was nothing they could do. Dad died this morning.”
In a split second it was as if their fight last month had never happened. “I’m going over there now,” Margie said and she hung up.
Margie found Stella laying in her garden, only it wasn’t a garden anymore. Every single plant was hacked to shreds with the colorful blooms scattered everywhere. She saw the weeping willow high above Stella’s house swaying in the breeze. Margie’s own tears now echoed its sadness.
“Come on,” Margie said as she picked up Stella from the ground. “Let’s get you inside.” As they walked to the house, Margie lamented the flowers they trampled on. Then she remembered the empty paint buckets in her garage. They could hold dozens of flowers. Perhaps their beauty wouldn’t have to be wasted after all. Margie gave Stella’s shoulder a squeeze. “And don’t you worry, I’ll take care of this mess.”
Garden Victory Part 1
Stella stood among the sunflowers, daisies, peonies, hydrangeas, and roses. The tears that rolled down her face hit the ground. She looked around to see if her sorrow had been absorbed into their roots. But the flowers didn’t wither and die. Instead, they stood tall and luscious; the sun showering them with vibrancy and life.
“Traitors,” Stella muttered. “It’s like you don’t even care that he’s gone.” Stella reached down and pulled her gardening apron to her, wiping the remaining tears from her eyes. As she did a pair of shears fell out of the pocket. She knelt down to pick them up, but stayed on the ground paralyzed by the flowers towering over her. Were they really as callous as they seemed?
Stella turned the shears over and over in her hands. The ground felt hard underneath her, but somehow that did not encourage Stella to get up. What would Matthew say about her sitting in the garden, she wondered. Would he behave in typical Matthew fashion and call her silly, laughing as he pulled her up? Give her a hug and a kiss on her forehead?
Well I’ll never know, Stella thought. Matthew is dead and I’ll never know what he would think about this. I’ll never know what he would think about anything again.
Stella continued turning the gardening shears in her hands. As she did, the words, Matthew is dead, turned over in her mind. The words and movement both seemed involuntary and she didn’t know how to stop either. She started squeezing the shears together, just for something different to do. Then, as another torrent of tears was unleashed, Stella began hacking the flowers closest to her. Down came the roses.
“Bravo,” they seemed to shout, taunting her with every snip of her shears. “Now you’re getting somewhere.” So, she kept going. Down came the hydrangeas, then the peonies, and the daisies. Last, came the sunflowers. She did not stop until every flower laid on the ground, their remaining foliage and stems at half-mast of where they had once been.
Stella looked at her work. “There,” she cried, sobbing into her hands. “Now you’re dead, too.” Stella wasn’t sure if she meant the garden or herself. She sank to her knees again, but this time the ground wasn’t so hard. The flowers cushioned her like a bed, soft and welcoming. Stella laid down. Maybe if she lay there long enough, the summer sun would somehow bring her back to life. So she closed her eyes and waited.