Behind the Front Door May, 2013. volume 1. | Page 12

Winter garden.

12

I want to gain entry to his winter garden. So I slip past the broken, rusted gate. Brush aside hibernating vines and step onto the ground where he says he’s allowed no other in recent years. He lingers there, in this frosted white hinterland. His foot prints can be found circling the iced over pond. I slip across that greasy surface and fall to my knees, brushing away the frost and peering downwards.

I catch glimpses of glory beneath the surface. Glory either forgotten or locked away in an icy heart. Tears freeze in place on my skin and the wind blows through my long, black hair like a lover’s touch. But there is no lover touching my pretty face, or holding me within those loved arms and legs.

By the pond, there is a bench where others have sat before. Their places are marked by discarded cigarette packages, emptied coffee cups, and smeary glasses that once held the whispered promise of gin. Those things are now frozen in place, time having long forgotten their purpose. Discarded. Like him. But there’s a place on that bench that is still warm, I can feel her lingering, no matter how much she might hate it there. Her things are not frosted with the passing time, everything is how she left it.

Instead of taking a seat in my place, I stay on the icy pond, my breath melting little circles of where I think he’s laying. Beneath the surface.

I just want to eat your words I say into the ice, hoping my sentiments are heard by his ears, that he’s listening to what I say. Besotted with that glimpsed glory, I keep my spot on that ice, my knees aching in place, my hands on the cold in front of me.

I need a flashlight to see, it’s dark down here he says, words muffled by the sheath of matter between us. I hesitate, thinking I might hurt him by giving him something to light his way. Instead, I push pages of words through little cracks, small gives in the ice where my breath has warmed it.

He is quiet now. I wonder if I’ve stepped over the invisible line that defines black and white but I want him to want me. To not stop wanting me.

You’re so grown up, Apostle I say, prompting for a response. I can hear him shift in the water, it pushes through those little cracks I’ve made. My knees are starting to cry for the rest of my body.

You’re just thoughtful. So nice he answers then goes quiet.

For days, he stays that way. I give up the spot on the ice to wander the garden and put my hands on his things. In the slippery insides of my mind, I’m aware that I reveal too much for him and it makes him retreat back into the water like those silent fish you can’t catch. Sometimes, words slip out of my mouth like tadpoles and he surfaces long enough to hear them. But in my insides, I feel like it’s not enough to make him mine. He lets me walk in his winter garden long enough to know that I want it, then hides from me in the dark, cold water.

I just want to eat your words. I just want.