[Cinead] Morning
It is dark and late when the new boy crawls into bed with me. He is warm and scared and I don’t mind in the slightest when he does. I wrap my arms around him and hold him until he falls asleep, cursing my memory that I can’t remember his name. How he came here escapes me, but my boys accept him. It is enough.
At dawn he wakes and he goes rigid in my arms, staring out the east facing window. I wrap around him tighter, whisper nothings into his hair, and rock him a little against me. He doesn’t relax again until the sun has broken the horizon line entirely, and then he falls back into a fitful sleep, full of dreams. I kiss his forehead, tempted to go delving in after him, but decide against it. Eventually, I will. Not now.
I leave him be in the bed, start my day. I go downstairs and speak with Melody who has already been awake for awhile. She pours a cup of tea and sits with me in the garden, listens to me ramble until the new boy follows me down. His hair is mussed and he looks at me with haunted eyes. What did he call himself?
“Go get some toast, boy. We should talk about vegetables.” I send him off and Melody takes that as her cue to leave as well. I remain in the garden, enjoying the warmth of the sun until he returns. For a moment, I’ve lost what I was going to tell him. I sit with him, saying nothing at all, hoping that it will return. He sits down on the ground next to my chair and I my fingers absently through his hair while he eats. He leans into my leg a little.
“Vegetables!” I am glad that my thoughts have returned to me; sometimes they do not. “The thing about vegetables,” I say, “is that the best ones are the hardiest. They grow with only moderate tending and are not susceptible to drought or heat or flood or cold. The best ones grow in spite of what happens to them.”
My boy’s eyes narrow as he tries to understand my meaning. For a moment I want to laugh and tell him what it is that I really mean, but it’s a lesson that is best learned on his own. I can only nudge him in the right direction. I stand, wave my hand for him to follow, and he does, a little behind me. I slow my pace and take him by the arm, so we walk side by side, arm in arm. I guide him to one of the vegetable plots, kneel down next to some cucumbers.
“Here.” I point to the base of the plant, where it had been cut nearly in half. “See this?”
He crouches next to me, peers. I take his hand and place it on the stalk’s scar. “This plant will still produce cucumbers, big beautiful juicy ones. It survives, will continue to survive.” I gaze at him and smile. He returns it cautiously, more a grimace than a true smile. Ah, well. We are getting closer.
“This is yours if you would like it.” I point to the plot between the two paths. It’s a vegetable garden, but shady herbs grow closest to the wedge by the apple tree. He tries to speak, but the words don’t quite come. I kiss his forehead one last time before moving off, leaving him to his garden.
At dawn he wakes and he goes rigid in my arms, staring out the east facing window. I wrap around him tighter, whisper nothings into his hair, and rock him a little against me. He doesn’t relax again until the sun has broken the horizon line entirely, and then he falls back into a fitful sleep, full of dreams. I kiss his forehead, tempted to go delving in after him, but decide against it. Eventually, I will. Not now.
I leave him be in the bed, start my day. I go downstairs and speak with Melody who has already been awake for awhile. She pours a cup of tea and sits with me in the garden, listens to me ramble until the new boy follows me down. His hair is mussed and he looks at me with haunted eyes. What did he call himself?
“Go get some toast, boy. We should talk about vegetables.” I send him off and Melody takes that as her cue to leave as well. I remain in the garden, enjoying the warmth of the sun until he returns. For a moment, I’ve lost what I was going to tell him. I sit with him, saying nothing at all, hoping that it will return. He sits down on the ground next to my chair and I my fingers absently through his hair while he eats. He leans into my leg a little.
“Vegetables!” I am glad that my thoughts have returned to me; sometimes they do not. “The thing about vegetables,” I say, “is that the best ones are the hardiest. They grow with only moderate tending and are not susceptible to drought or heat or flood or cold. The best ones grow in spite of what happens to them.”
My boy’s eyes narrow as he tries to understand my meaning. For a moment I want to laugh and tell him what it is that I really mean, but it’s a lesson that is best learned on his own. I can only nudge him in the right direction. I stand, wave my hand for him to follow, and he does, a little behind me. I slow my pace and take him by the arm, so we walk side by side, arm in arm. I guide him to one of the vegetable plots, kneel down next to some cucumbers.
“Here.” I point to the base of the plant, where it had been cut nearly in half. “See this?”
He crouches next to me, peers. I take his hand and place it on the stalk’s scar. “This plant will still produce cucumbers, big beautiful juicy ones. It survives, will continue to survive.” I gaze at him and smile. He returns it cautiously, more a grimace than a true smile. Ah, well. We are getting closer.
“This is yours if you would like it.” I point to the plot between the two paths. It’s a vegetable garden, but shady herbs grow closest to the wedge by the apple tree. He tries to speak, but the words don’t quite come. I kiss his forehead one last time before moving off, leaving him to his garden.