Expulsion from the Gardens

JoJo batted my leg; I didn’t have to glance at the clock to know it was pushing 8pm, her bedtime, and we still needed to go on one last walk.

But I felt the convulsing swell of tears bubbling up, taking me down, contouring me into a ball on my ottoman as I sobbed into clenched fists. This was it: the final expulsion of guilt, of anger—of the life I thought I was going to have.

Startled by the sudden, breathless tears, JoJo smacked my leg again, and nosed her way into my face. I rubbed her ears and looked around the small apartment illuminated by lamplight—pouring over green blobs, their delicate, arabesque tendrils frozen in a perpetual quest for the sun.

I thought I’d moved on; that’s what surprised me the most. But as I reflected on the past two years, I recognized I’d been spending so much time surviving, making do. Regardless of whatever form the tether took, I constantly found myself laden with the life I began in this state—suffocated by post-divorce debt and scraping by in a place that was supposed to be ours rather than mine, my social life atrophying with every declined invitation.

But this night, I felt free.

***

Hours before, I’d spent my last moments in Gay Gardens—thanking the little cottage for reminding me that I had the strength, confidence, and audacity to take those first terrifying steps toward building my new life.

I walked through every room, thinking back to the conversations, arguments—the dreams borne out of necessity and a deep wanting, all of which still require constant cultivation. And then I paused in the entryway—the door opened wide—and smiled back at how much the view had changed. Intermixed with exhaustion-fueled sadness was a growing sense of pride. We’d both emerged a little better than when we’d started.

In the weeks prior, I’d been informed that Gay Gardens wouldn’t be destroyed after all—at least not imminently. My efforts over the previous two years had not only resuscitated the cottage, but an interest by the landlord in managing the property responsibly. Once I handed over the keys, a month-long series of intense structural repairs would begin.

I hope you become something great. 

Outside, I made one final circuit around the yard—lingering in the flower beds replete with irises and hyacinths; collecting branches that’d blown down, bundling them up, and tossing them into the woods; and ripping out a few resurgent briers, knowing I’d likely carry a few barbs back with me. I dusted off my hands and gazed back at the house, watching as petals from the flowering plum skittered across the worn brick patio.

Goodbye, you weird, beautiful place. 

Walking up the wobbly staircase, I stretched out my arms and ran my hands along the large tree trunks growing through the railing, remembering how ivy-choked they’d been when I first descended into this overgrown jungle.

Breathe easy.

As my hand reached the end of the railing, I dug my nails in and then exhaled, propelling myself forward. I adjusted my rearview mirror, put the car into reverse, and promptly plowed into the anchored mailbox.

Befuddled by my absentmindedness, I eased forward, listening to the scrapes and pops—watching the mailbox shift back into place.

Fitting.

With the car idling, I dusted off the deep dent in the trunk—flecks of bright turquoise ground in: a subtle reminder of how every little thing shapes another, leaving glorious imprints.

***

Perched parrot-like on my reading chair, JoJo snorted, annoyed.

“Alright,” I huffed back.

Her ears pricked up, tail wagging wildly.

“Let’s see what’s out there.”

Walking through the apartment building’s deserted lobby, we emerged into the chilly night as two actors in this ever-unfolding sideshow.

Wandering down dark avenues, venturing toward shapeless lights. Marveling at the vacant spaces in between, glutted with potential.