The Goodbye Garden
By: Aiden Barbour
Tags: Poetry, Short Read, Garden, Depression

What once I was so glad to see, now makes me feel like I’m left in the cold.

Went to a city the other day, someplace that might as well be labeled as a colorful hill, colors seeping all the way ‘round. Went to this town the other day, and beyond the street lights and signs, you could hear this sound, the mouth of something speaking softly. Whether it was the infanta of the church bell or the sire of the sewer singing, there was some song there that felt could last till the curtains were drawn. Walking around, I could find a friend in the blend of ceilings and walls that surrounded, and the puddles I stepped in were ripples around memories that had drowned. The sun was coming up and it was all cheery, but for some reason, I knew it was gonna make me oh so lonesome when they’d go.

In this burg I could see the people and things, softly passing me by. Softly brushing by my shy shrewd self as I felt an isolated rainfall down my back; I can’t seemingly escape this dew. But for now, I knew, it must be all in my head, because, this morning, I felt steadfast in this living place, as the only work was my step down this sidewalk. How could I be beside myself like I have been for this long a time, I’d feel like I’m wanting to be down.

So I lied down instead. Lake Alice, with the type of beauty that’ll make up a fine picture, sat before my feet. The beating of the sun running away from its marine display, bouncing with the bunnies around the bushes by my sides; Everything could be alright, as long as you are staring up into that big blue sky. Even still tho, as my eyes were letting in the sunshine, I couldn’t shrug this putrid grey. For when I got up from my grassy stay, on telephone poles and bus stops that I now saw as my eyes leveled, there were missing posters, open shops for whatever face it may be I placed there today. Buildings with bricks composed of ash sit in their designed space like stashes of things stuck out of place. Fear the concrete that looks so longingly dull, yet you could stare for a day, see nothing, but also see no worry in where it has laid.

To get a hold of my mind, to do something not so strange, I instead walked through a garden nearby. Maybe un-tame vines might remind me of me, that untamed fool I so often can be. I saw this woman shoveling, some pretty girl too fair for soil to smudge. 19 or so, with a dozen flowers. I was so tempted to join her, but how could I expect someone to find a foothold in my breaking ways. As she shoveled, instead, I imagined myself doing the same. In reality, as I was walking by, in my mind I was thinking of one more shovel, make me a grave. Hopefully, in this newly made tomb, I could find some rest today, with flowers placed upon my chest. Lily’s, maybe roses. Yes roses, nothing but smiles and roses. No headstone to leave a mark, but rather some ambiguous rock shaped like a heart, one that with love will leave me peaceful and alone, not a landmark for returning despair.

Absent of such deathly thoughts, the garden truly was beautiful though. Sometimes moments in life can give you a funny feeling, out of nowhere it seems time might show up on time. Like good deeds might come full circle. And even if they do not, you feel silly for questioning the good surrounding you as well as within yourself. It’s enough to bring you to the surface of the pond in which you drown (you are undeserving of the more grandeur lake or ocean) for a breath or two. It’s the fleeting feeling I capture in words sometimes, a smile painted within a paper with vocabulary shown only to myself. Why just to myself? Well, how can I tell you about my heart? How can I tell you how I feel? Sure, maybe there are people I know at that moment, maybe many, that the smile or frown that was soaked within the drops of ink that stains this page, the many pages, could fill their ears and find a place to belong, but how can you tell something to someone so far away? I’m so distant from myself even; I’m here, yet still forgot to get up and walk out of that garden grave I had made, now soil falling over my head.