Secret Garden

I woke up at 6:30 this morning and went over the new/old house to finish painting the downstairs so I can hopefully rent that part of the duplex this week. I found my garden, what is left of my garden, the lilies and the roses; the things abandoned four years ago which continued to grow. I felt not like the little girl but Colin’s mother who was dead and somehow returned to her place to undercover what she had left behind. I spent four hours being happy then came home and cried---grief is like that.

I spoke Creole twice today. I bought three boxes to Goodwill and saw a man and his two daughters coming out of the store and offered them Isabel’s plastic kitchen. The little girl said to me does it talk to you, does the water run? No but you can make it talk. You can use your own voice and it will say things.

I spoke in Creole about the sun and the little plastic kitchen. I longed for a country that is not my home but may always be. Some days I have to pretend there’s water, my plastic kitchen is happiness, some days I have to pretend it will all be okay even though I'm not sure it will.