Sheila’s Garden Diary

by Sheila Greer

Outside, the heat and humidity felt oppressive. She walked briskly across the yard and down to her garden where she sat on the homemade bench she had made from an old board and two very distinctly knotty looking stumps. Pine stumps they were and one kept leaking sap, so she had painted it and then sprayed polyurethane finish on in the hopes that would stop the leak. Every time she checked she would find little sticky beads of the stuff and mutter under her breath that she must find a way to stop it from ruining her stump seat! Here in this garden is where she could come to be alone and feel the earth beneath her feet and smell the musky smell of the rotting mulch that was enriching the soil. Here is where the trees she planted almost 3 years ago were growing and providing much needed shade upon her sanctuary. They grew thick and luscious along the top ridge of the depression that was the floor of the garden. She felt comforted with the thick leaves and with the whispering sound they made when the wind swept across them giving them a tender voice with which to speak to her spirit.

In the middle of the garden she had dug a fire pit and lined it with stones, building up beyond the digging to form a rock ring. Many times she had come during the autumn season to build her sacred fire and call to the Universe and speak of the desires of her life. On this hot and humid June evening she sat silent and thoughtful. Her heart was full of emotion as she whispered to her trees of her secret she had been keeping so close to her heart. She thought of a lad she’d known long ago. She remembered the life that always seemed to leap from his eyes. She recalled the glow she always felt whenever she could hear him speak her name. She pictured the way the breeze would ruffle his hair and she loved him beyond what words could describe.

She remained in her garden that evening in June until the sun disappeared behind the mountain and her cheeks grew wet the way they always did when something was so beautiful that tears seemed the only expression appropriate. The desire she held in her heart for him for so long now had become a habit. It was second nature to her to speak his name as she lay down at night and every morning when she awoke. So she just never questioned why she waited. She took for granted with each passing year that he would come again to her as he had promised.

So that evening as the full moon rose silver and bright and flooded her garden with liquid light, she made her way back up the hill to the little house and to her bed. And outside her window the song of the whip-o-will drowned out the whisper of his name from her slumbering lips.