Perennials

Dani and I sat outside today, eating nectarines in the sun. I played guitar and she mocked the way my hands, covered with juice, stuck to the strings. The sun didn’t set until 10:45pm. When it got cool we layed on the grass under a blanket and watched the stars. As one shot across the sky I wished this would last forever.

______________________________________________________________________________________

After being gifted the journal for her birthday in late June, Isla wrote only one entry before tossing it into the dark depths of her closet, not intending on ever recovering it. 

“Who needs to write down their thoughts?” She exclaimed to her best friend Dani. She assumed she was intelligent enough to carry them all in her head, stable enough to keep her feelings bottled up inside her chest. 

“I mean, it was nice of your parents. Sometimes it’s helpful to process your emotions.” Dani murmured, but Isla was not convinced. 

Isla never would have imagined that only two months later she would dig back through the piles of old clothes and childhood memorabilia in her closet and sit down at her desk, favorite green gel pen in hand. 

______________________________________________________________________________________

The entire summer Isla woke at 6:00am to tend to her garden (5:00am on the solstice), trying to squeeze the most sunlight out of every day. She spent her days watering and harvesting her first crop of herbs, resting only to lay down on the cool earth and let the soil slow it all down. She imagined she could feel the tiny roots of the new plants under her, nutrients marching to the cadence of her pumping blood. She had started basil, rosemary, thyme, oregano and mint in her kitchen in late April, sowing them in the cool soil outside in June. 

𖧧

September

One Thursday night, Isla’s parents called her to the kitchen to talk. 

“I have homework.”

“This is important.”

Begrudgingly, she sat down at the table, her favorite striped sweater cushioning her elbow against the hard cedar. 

“So?” she asked. Isla had anticipated the conversation, but refused to recognize it. Had known the fabric of her home was pulling apart practically since her birth, but always felt this final piece could wait to be unraveled. 

“We have decided that it would be best, for all of us, if we... um, went our separate ways.” said Isla’s father. 

Tears started to well in her eyes but she pushed them off, staying stone cold. 

“It’s okay to cry, honey, we know it will be difficult to leave this house and school and...” the words dissipated as Isla was transported away from the table, face still stoic. She saw her garden, the tiny starts, the delicate roots as she carefully sowed them into the soil, the budding leaves as she meticulously watered and mulched, watered and mulched.

“Isla.” 

Back at the table she mustered a slight smile to her parents, whispering “No, um, it’s fine, I’ll be fine.” 

Pushing her chair in, hearing the squeak of the old legs against the hardwood, she ran upstairs, flopping onto her bed and muffling her sobs with her ruffled, polka- dotted pillow. It was a gift from Dani, and as it became drenched with tears she could smell the faint, floral scent of her perfume. Picturing her soft smile, she could almost hear her hearty and frequent laughter, feel her embrace and her comforting words. Isla missed her already. Not only would she be leaving the plants she had poured her whole life into, but also the person who gave her life meaning. 

______________________________________________________________________________________

We’re moving out. Or more accurately, Mom and Dad are. Dad bought a little two- bedroom up in Vermont, because I guess all the ice and the snow and the darkness couldn’t be any worse than living with mom. She’s leaving her job at Penn and moving into Joseph’s mini- mansion in Colorado with his kids and his ex- wife. Yeah, I’m not sure either. 

𖧧

October 

Move out day. My parents decided to each take half of my stuff to their houses. They didn’t even ask me about it first so Dad has all my pants and Mom all my shirts. I decided not to let them know, they feel guilty enough as it is. Mom’s flight was at 5:00 this morning. I didn’t wake up to say goodbye because life is insufferable before the sun is up. Dad took the first load of stuff up to the house, but I told him to leave me at home until he comes back for the rest of it. 

______________________________________________________________________________________

Isla runs outside, then runs back in to grab her coat. 

Kneeling in the soil, she makes the hardest decision. Her father decided that she could only bring one small plant to their new home, laughing at Isla’s very serious proposition of transplanting the entire plot. After much deliberation she chooses mint, carefully inserting her warm fingers into the cold soil, extricating the feeble roots and dropping them into the terracotta pot. She adds a little more soil and a bit of water to the top and brings it inside to wait in the empty house. 

Back in the garden, she knows she must say goodbye. Lying down on the ground, her outstretched arms not quite reaching the end of the bed, Isla closes her eyes. Tears drip down her face and onto the soil. She hopes they provide the nourishment the plants need to battle the winter. Hearing her father’s rented box truck grind to a stop against the coarse gravel, she wishes she could just absorb into the earth, join her seedlings underground. 

𖧧

December  

The colors were pretty when we first got here I guess, but now the trees are bare and everything looks grey. The days at my new school go by slower than the falling apart of my parents relationship, and I miss Dani. I stayed in my room on Halloween because I couldn’t bear to carve pumpkins or pick apples without her. I didn't want to see the little kids trick or treating with both their parents, making them wear jackets over their costumes to keep them warm and safe. I worry for my mint plant, as its leaves are starting to shrivel and fall to the soil. I’ve been taking it back and forth with me to Colorado. I guess I’m still hoping maybe it will recover. I’ve been to Mom’s three times so far. The flights are expensive so I try not to complain about the constant packing and unpacking. She says she misses me and I just nod. It’s not that I don’t miss her, but I hate feeling as though I’m constantly visiting. I don’t tell her that, she and Dad have enough going on with all the custody and paperwork and grief of losing something you’ve put your whole life into. I don’t let them buy me new clothes but just borrow my dads shirts and my moms pants. They applaud my frugality but all I want is to not feel like such a burden. I haven’t responded to Dani’s texts in weeks, and I hate that. I just feel like I’m not at all fun to be around right now. I yearn and worry for Dani, for my plants back at home, for my once unified and stable life. 

𖧧

April

Isla boards her fourth flight to Colorado with nothing but her polka- dot pillow and her mint. She sits alone in a window seat in the far back of the plane, holding the pot securely against her thigh, propping her head up against the cold glass with the pillow. Isla shivers as she drifts in and out of sleep. In fragments of dreams she sees flashes of her old garden, of memories with her parents and with Dani. They morph into gory scenes of herbs being slaughtered like soldiers in a war, remembers screaming arguments between her parents, remembers how long it has been since she and Dani hiked their favorite mountain together. Half way through the flight attendant taps her lightly, asking if she would like something to drink. She declines. Looking down at her plant she sees the bare, shriveled branches, the crunchy brown leaves.

“Actually, yes, um, water please, thanks.” She says. 

The flight attendant brings her the water and, face full of contempt, looks Isla up and down as she pours the cool liquid over the mint’s dull soil. 

______________________________________________________________________________________

I just got to Colorado this morning. The first thing Mom did was worriedly ask about the dark circles under my eyes. I told her to leave me alone, which I regretted later. I couldn’t tell her I hadn’t slept in weeks, up all night thinking about how life used to be. That would be too hard for her, and she didn’t need it. I played Uno with my step- sister Georgie. Oh yeah, Mom and Joseph are getting married in June. I like him fine. Then we had dinner and I felt bad for not finishing my plate. Mom made a bed for me, which is nicer than sleeping on Georgie’s floor like I’ve been doing, but it just made me feel more like a guest. There are all different floral patterns of bedding and a vase of fake flowers on my bedside table. I appreciate the thought. She asked if I wanted my polka- dot pillow washed, but I declined a little too harshly. She did let me keep my plant on the kitchen windowsill though. 

______________________________________________________________________________________

In the morning, the sun crept in through the window next to Isla’s bed, warming her pillow and comforter. She put on her mothers fluffy slippers and crept out of bed. She stood for a minute and absorbed the beam of light coming through the center of the room before sighing deeply and turning to go downstairs. On the first floor, her mother was making pancakes. 

“Morning, sweetie.” she said, pulling Isla into a hug. Resistantly Isla obliged, looking over her shoulder at her plant. 

“Mom!” 

“Quiet, honey, you’ll wake the kids.” 

“No, mom, look!” she yelled giddily, reminding her mother of when Isla had first seen snow as a toddler. 

She turned her head to see her daughter crying at the kitchen window, her trembling hands cupped around a tiny terracotta pot. Running over to wrap an arm around her in slight bewilderment, her mother started crying too, “Oh, Isla, I’m so glad.”

The mighty mint plant had sprouted two teeny leaves, the dark rich soil looking nourished and hearty. At that moment, Isla heard The Beatles’ familiar refrain come from her cellphone. That was her ringtone for her father, the first song he taught her on guitar. Here Comes the Sun felt especially apropos. 

“Dad! I have so much to tell you!” 

Isla’s father hadn’t heard such a cheerful response in so long, he forgot that he had been the one to call her with news. 

“The mint grew!” Her mother shouted from across the kitchen, Isla shocked at the warmth of her voice. 

“Oh, wow, Isla, honey, that’s such good news!” Her father wasn’t one to cry, but as her mother embraced her again, she could hear him slightly start to shudder. Isla didn’t know he could tell how much the plant meant to her. Hadn’t realized they could both tell that she was struggling. 

“Oh, Isla, I forgot I called to tell you something!” Her father said after a while. 

“Yes?” 

“Dani’s coming to live in Vermont. Her Mom has to come here for work, and with us living here and all...” Again, Isla’s father was drowned out by the sound of his daughter's sobs. 

𖧧

June (1 year later)

Dani and I spent the whole day together. She helped me set up my new garden at Dad’s house, which the mint is already ferociously taking over. We biked into Montpelier for lunch today, and then walked the trail behind her house and the whole time I felt like the luckiest person in the world. Yes, I lost a home, but I gained three more (since Dani’s house is right across the street from mine, I’m there practically as much as my own). I have two new step- siblings and a step- dad who also love to garden and are actually much better than just fine. My mint came back after the winter, its dead branches decomposing to enrich the soil. I tell my parents and Dani how I feel and I let them listen. I feel I have bloomed too.