The Ivy
FICTION
By Melissa Mae
Our garden is overgrown with time. Bushes where roses once bloomed now stand as twigs, and weeds suffocate the ground. Growing up the stone walls meant to contain them cancerous vines spread. All the while, a decaying statue of Saint Michael stands atop the fountain, now overlooking stagnant water riddled with algae and various hovering bugs. I pinch the stem of an ivy leaf and remove it from the rest, ripping it into tiny pieces as I aimlessly wander. My thoughts take me back to countless summers spent here with my husband. In a sudden jolt though he is ripped away as I fall out of my daydream and to the ground. I mutter under my breath at my clumsiness and untangle the vine from my ankle. The broken cobblestone toiled my wrinkled palms and left my knees bloody and scratched. Bringing myself to my feet I dust off my hands and wince in stinging pain, reluctant, I make my way back to the house to clean myself up. Awkwardly I limp from the garden to the wooden backdoor, with little effort it opens but with great force, its springs slam it shut behind me. From the kitchen, I walk to the bathroom bending down slowly to grab my husband's first aid kid. It's a dusty metal tin, unrepresentative of its fully stocked insides. He was always sure to have it filled in case of emergency. I place it on the ground and stand up, grab the cream hand towel embroidered with little black butterflies, and turn on the faucet. Dunking it into the warm water filling the sink I ring it out and sit on the toilet, dapping my knees. I wince at the stinging pain but finish the job with an alcohol pad and bandages. Hesitant, I tuck away the first aid kit, turn off the lights, and make my way to the kitchen. I shiver walking in even though it is nearly 80 degrees outside.
Still, though the humidity is suffocating. I pour a cup of iced tea from the pitcher in the fridge and sit at the wooden oval table. From my seat looking at his, I fidget with my cup, its glass outside covered in condensation that stings my palms every time I lift it. Slightly decayed Marigolds centered in a vase fill the air with their fragrance, and as night falls owls with their song. Not quite sure of where the time has gone, an hour has passed and the the stove reads 8:24 pm
Snapping my mouth to signify the start of a sentence, I wipe the corners and say out loud “We've let the garden go”. Unable to look at his empty chair I look at the fridge covered in magnets from our past adventures, They are all covered in a fine layer of dust. As frantically as my old bones allow, I stand up and grab the duster from the counter. Swiping over the tacky fridge decor you insisted we had, fists on my hips I look out the window above the kitchen sink.
“We just had to have these magnets huh? , all they do is collect dust, and are awfully ugly.” I tap my foot as it will be enough to conjure a response.
Putting the duster down on the counter I turn around and look at your vacant spot, my vision blurring because of welted tears in my eyes. As if that ivy is back to haunt me I trip over my words, choked down by tears I utter out what I had wanted to say this entire conversation. “Why did you have to leave me?”. Wiping my eyes and nose with a loose napkin from the counter I sit back in my chair unable to take my eyes away from your seat. “We still had so much to do my love.” my vocal cords were no longer strong enough to carry on to end my sentence.
My eyes feel as heavy as my heart, so I go to the bathroom to get ready for bed. With my hands and knees still sore from this afternoon's fall I drop my dress to my ankles and change into a nightgown I know you would've made fun of me for wearing, comparing me to our mothers with such a horrendous pattern. The lights flicker reminding me of the bulb that needs to be changed but now you will never get to it. With a sigh, I turn out the light and go to the bedroom. The bed is made with such pristine, it looks as if no one has ever slept in it, but I have and so have you. I fold back the yellow and white floral comforter and slide under, sure to not cross to your side with a fear I may disrupt its peace if I do. Leaning over the nightstand I click off the lights and prepare for another sleepless night, but something happens. I feel your hand intertwine with mine as it had done many nights before. Not frightened or concerned I close my eyes and for the first time in days feel an old comfort I've longed for. Closing my eyes I drift away.