In the Backyard by Mary Melfi

Author:Mary Melfi
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781771832373
Publisher: Guernica Editions
Published: 2018-10-05T16:00:00+00:00

28

Ding dong.

At the door are a pair of husky, government-paid workers, here to pick up the hospital bed, the wheelchair, the walker and the cane once used by my dear old husband.

I show the men in, and they immediately set to remove all traces of how my late husband was artfully tortured by Cancer in this very room. The day the Torturer did him in, men, just like these two, wrapped him up in plastic, and put him in a body bag.

Ding dong.

At the door: the repairman for the furnace. Watch your step … Come right in; the electricity is turned off …

Ding dong.

At the door: some guy who delivers pizzas. Wrong address.

Someone (who?) asks: “Mary, Mary quite contrary, how does your garden grow?”

I don’t know the answer. I don’t even know who is asking the question. Is it my late husband?

All I am sure of is that the hospital bed, the wheelchair, the walker, and the cane that my late husband used are gone for good, and I miss them. I knew I would miss my husband once he passed away, but who would ever thought I could miss the hospital bed he lay on? Sounds kind of silly, but so it is.

Someone (who?) asks: “Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?”

We’re in the dead of winter, damn it. There is no garden. And I miss it. I miss my garden like I would miss a finger or a toe if it were accidentally cut off; I wouldn’t dare say I miss it like I would a hand or a foot—that would be an outrageous statement, though in my gloom, I do think it.

I would miss the books I have read in my life if I hadn’t gotten round to opening their covers and giving myself over to them. I would miss the roof on my house if it weren’t there to protect me from the rain, the snow and the big bad wolf (the wind), so too I miss my garden … But what of it?

Ding dong … Your conscience calling: “Mary, Mary quite contrary, if you had taken better care of your husband, had been a better wife, God would have allowed him to stay on a little longer. It is your fault he didn’t keep his day job—loving you.”

Ding dong … No one is at the door. I am hearing things. Just my imagination on fire … Where is everyone?

I miss my garden though not half as much as I miss having my late aunts and uncles round the dinner table. Are they breaking bread in another part of the universe (call it heaven)? If only I could have absolute faith that they are doing just that. (There is life after death!) All I am sure of is that time is beating me up and that this is no way to treat a lady. I miss my garden like I miss my youth, well, maybe not as much as that, but I do miss it as much as I miss my youthful complexion.

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