Didi Wood's Pick: "Sometimes we find ourselves trapped in a prison of what we're supposed to want, and the only way out involves destruction, and blood. This story works on many levels; it's a wonderful example of how a deft and vivid telling can animate and elevate a common scenario."
"I'd prefer to come home now", Gavin says, as if time is the issue, as if when matters more than what or why or how. His tone ambiguous over the phone line; I wish for his eyes.
I shiver in my bathrobe, the apartment still holding the chill of a long winter despite spring's arrival. My hands clutch a mug of hot tea, warming. Gavin persists. "Are the tulips blooming?"
He has forgotten the importance of days. Those tulips were planted on a gentle fall morning that lied when it promised Indian summer, ripe pumpkins, a quiet winter. The next day brought icy rain that pierced the soil and frost that stretched out at night.
The tulips were the first "ours": purchased by Gavin, but planted in my side yard. They replaced the small patch of yellowing grass we decided needed to be more. Even then it felt strange, desperate, but I pushed aside leaves and doubts and cleared the soil for planting. Weeks later I drew the shades on the windows to the side yard and ignored what wasn't there. Perhaps the emergence of blush-colored blooms should have served as a warning.
I remain silent, my only noise the gentle passage of tea over my lips. It meets the growing tension in my stomach and hardens it.
"Come on, Alicia. Don't make this harder than it is". I strain to find remorse in Gavin's voice and consider the word hard. I hang up the phone hard. Slam the mug down hard. Walk hard steps to the garden, bathrobe blowing in bitter last gasps of winter. Dig my hands into near-frozen earth. I am at first satisfied pulling at stems, but then claw my fingers deeper in to the soil. Knuckles torn, my blood mixes with the dirt, but I am relentless, rescuing each bulb. They are as I remember, small tangles of brown folded over on themselves, hiding a center. But now from those centers emerge single green stalks brave enough to split mud and ice. In my hands they are smooth, fresh frozen spring. I know if I leave them, they will return again next year.
I take piles of petals, dirt, bulbs and blood to my dining room table. I arrange them in clear glass bowls and vases. Weeks later I make bad smelling potpourri, and I am grateful for its stench.
That summer, dandelions take over the garden. I am a child, prancing through the side yard, picking them and popping their heads off, one by one.
Deanne Buffalari has a PhD in Neuroscience and does biomedical research studying the biological mechanisms underlying behavior. She currently lives in Charleston, SC. When she's not studying behavior, she enjoys writing about it.