Garden of Eden
Sundays.
I.
The pond water ripples around us like a silk milk-bath as the mid-June heat falls weakly through the limbs of our birch trees that line the bank. We wade through the shallow end with tadpoles capering across the tiny waves towards the far side where the large rocks gather like old men with wise tales, and just far enough to still touch the bottom. The boy in my arms looks around tentatively, his hands laced around my neck loosely as they always were. David, I think is his name. His heart beats like a war drum against my chest. He looks up at me and there’s a tiny smile, and with his strong eyes he says, under. I smile back, wading further ahead and pulling us under the surface.
I see him moving his legs, his soft little body kicking through the bubbles rising up around us in the bath of algae-green, although he grips the back of my neck still with eagerness. I know he is smiling, and his eyes are closed. His teeth bloom like water lilies as he opens his mouth to grin, but he knows not to drink. Not long now, not too long. He holds on tight as I move through the deep pool towards rocky shadows, cruising like the summer breeze for which we wait. I feel his chin burrow into my neck when the adventure fades and he sees more danger than I do, and I come to the surface again to lean against the formation of rocks with one hand on the wall and the other around his back. He struggles to open his eyes as the water drips from his hair and down his face, his doe-like legs wrapped around me. We wade back to the bank along the sides to rest in the sun. He doesn’t have to tell me to.
I carry him on my hip through the grass and up the short walkway to the white house of vines where it smells like sausage and candles. He rubs his eyes while he sits on the dryer as I scrub his hair with a towel. He’ll need a bath later, but he needs a nap soon.
II.
The white bed sheets are clean and soft under the window sill as I lay there, still. Breathe in, breathe out. The trees outside our window sway as that rare breeze moves through and the sunlight flashes through the glass and through us, the little one next to me squeezing his eyes as he sleeps. Jonah, yes, like Jonah and the whale. He breathes like a hummingbird. I rub his arm that sticks slightly out of the blanket and he readjusts himself, exhaling deeply. Wrapped up in a blue wool blanket he is warm as I run my finger over his little hand, my wet hair cold and twisted across the bed. I feel him twitch against my chest, dreaming baby dreams.
Outside I hear a familiar shuffle, a few soft thuds, a clanging and clatter, and I know that sound. He knows I’m smiling right now, and I know he is too. I look back at the child in my arms and close my eyes, the evening rest pouring over me like the oil of God. Little one, can you hear me? I sometimes wonder if you can. It only seems like minutes go by when the clanging and clattering ceases and the front door opens and closes quietly and the stairs wheeze through the house as he opens our bedroom door.
The bed shifts with weight as he lies down behind me, his arm reaching around my waist and his chin on my neck. “I told you I would start on it,” he says with a flash of you-didn’t-believe-me vowels. I feel him grin into my skin; I didn’t believe him. He thinks it’s cute.
“I just want it cleaned up is all…” I try to defend myself, but they’re futile for the man chuckling behind me. I can barely keep my eyes open, my words falling out everywhere. He collects them in a basket to poke fun at me with later on. His beard scratches my shoulder blade and he knows it tickles. I feel him shift his weight over and off the bed. Around the edge he comes and reaches down gently to the bundle in my arms and lifts Jonah to his chest, careful not to wake him. “I’ll put him in his room,” he says, and disappears across the hall to the other room where David sleeps as well.
Soon I feel him against my neck again, breathing quietly, his right arm over mine with his rough hand brushing my hairline as we rest our tired bodies while the afternoon wanes into evening. For a while we drift into this opiate-like transcendence in which time does not exist and where nothing really matters and, yes, there really is a God.
“I think I knew you before I met you,” he mumbles.
“You did.”
III.
After a while, when it seems a little cooler, a little bit darker, I open my eyes and he’s leaning against the wall beside the open window, peering down through it. I see his eyes move around like orbiting planets as they team with other life forms from some distant galaxy. That rough Copenhagen scent around his neck, his white shirt, the ugly scar hidden right under his jaw bone; they are perfect.
He glances over at me and the corner of his mouth turns up into a half smile, the ghosts of other things fading from his mind. He steps over to the white, wooden night stand nearest to him and pulls out a tin box and a little black pipe, the beaten one with a few scratches. Leaning over the bed as if to kiss the top of my head, he instead pauses and closes his eyes against my hair. He pulls back and moves over to the window where he pulls up the tattered, floral print armchair from the corner and props his feet up on the window sill.
I stretch my legs and prop myself up with one hand, watching his chest expand and collapse with every slow breath. His five o clock shadow moves like a river in the valley of his neck. I slip off the bed and meander to the window, seating myself on the sill beside him. Our legs intertwine, and I listen to his heartbeat and the dreams inside the cavity of his chest, my life inside his heart. We gaze out past the pond as we pass the pipe, quietly talking about this and that, the plant life clinging to the wall, the cluttered yard. Another breeze comes through the window as we stare out through it towards the pond and where other wild things live, the little billows of smoke escaping into other empty spaces.
The pond water ripples around us like a silk milk-bath as the mid-June heat falls weakly through the limbs of our birch trees that line the bank. We wade through the shallow end with tadpoles capering across the tiny waves towards the far side where the large rocks gather like old men with wise tales, and just far enough to still touch the bottom. The boy in my arms looks around tentatively, his hands laced around my neck loosely as they always were. David, I think is his name. His heart beats like a war drum against my chest. He looks up at me and there’s a tiny smile, and with his strong eyes he says, under. I smile back, wading further ahead and pulling us under the surface.
I see him moving his legs, his soft little body kicking through the bubbles rising up around us in the bath of algae-green, although he grips the back of my neck still with eagerness. I know he is smiling, and his eyes are closed. His teeth bloom like water lilies as he opens his mouth to grin, but he knows not to drink. Not long now, not too long. He holds on tight as I move through the deep pool towards rocky shadows, cruising like the summer breeze for which we wait. I feel his chin burrow into my neck when the adventure fades and he sees more danger than I do, and I come to the surface again to lean against the formation of rocks with one hand on the wall and the other around his back. He struggles to open his eyes as the water drips from his hair and down his face, his doe-like legs wrapped around me. We wade back to the bank along the sides to rest in the sun. He doesn’t have to tell me to.
I carry him on my hip through the grass and up the short walkway to the white house of vines where it smells like sausage and candles. He rubs his eyes while he sits on the dryer as I scrub his hair with a towel. He’ll need a bath later, but he needs a nap soon.
II.
The white bed sheets are clean and soft under the window sill as I lay there, still. Breathe in, breathe out. The trees outside our window sway as that rare breeze moves through and the sunlight flashes through the glass and through us, the little one next to me squeezing his eyes as he sleeps. Jonah, yes, like Jonah and the whale. He breathes like a hummingbird. I rub his arm that sticks slightly out of the blanket and he readjusts himself, exhaling deeply. Wrapped up in a blue wool blanket he is warm as I run my finger over his little hand, my wet hair cold and twisted across the bed. I feel him twitch against my chest, dreaming baby dreams.
Outside I hear a familiar shuffle, a few soft thuds, a clanging and clatter, and I know that sound. He knows I’m smiling right now, and I know he is too. I look back at the child in my arms and close my eyes, the evening rest pouring over me like the oil of God. Little one, can you hear me? I sometimes wonder if you can. It only seems like minutes go by when the clanging and clattering ceases and the front door opens and closes quietly and the stairs wheeze through the house as he opens our bedroom door.
The bed shifts with weight as he lies down behind me, his arm reaching around my waist and his chin on my neck. “I told you I would start on it,” he says with a flash of you-didn’t-believe-me vowels. I feel him grin into my skin; I didn’t believe him. He thinks it’s cute.
“I just want it cleaned up is all…” I try to defend myself, but they’re futile for the man chuckling behind me. I can barely keep my eyes open, my words falling out everywhere. He collects them in a basket to poke fun at me with later on. His beard scratches my shoulder blade and he knows it tickles. I feel him shift his weight over and off the bed. Around the edge he comes and reaches down gently to the bundle in my arms and lifts Jonah to his chest, careful not to wake him. “I’ll put him in his room,” he says, and disappears across the hall to the other room where David sleeps as well.
Soon I feel him against my neck again, breathing quietly, his right arm over mine with his rough hand brushing my hairline as we rest our tired bodies while the afternoon wanes into evening. For a while we drift into this opiate-like transcendence in which time does not exist and where nothing really matters and, yes, there really is a God.
“I think I knew you before I met you,” he mumbles.
“You did.”
III.
After a while, when it seems a little cooler, a little bit darker, I open my eyes and he’s leaning against the wall beside the open window, peering down through it. I see his eyes move around like orbiting planets as they team with other life forms from some distant galaxy. That rough Copenhagen scent around his neck, his white shirt, the ugly scar hidden right under his jaw bone; they are perfect.
He glances over at me and the corner of his mouth turns up into a half smile, the ghosts of other things fading from his mind. He steps over to the white, wooden night stand nearest to him and pulls out a tin box and a little black pipe, the beaten one with a few scratches. Leaning over the bed as if to kiss the top of my head, he instead pauses and closes his eyes against my hair. He pulls back and moves over to the window where he pulls up the tattered, floral print armchair from the corner and props his feet up on the window sill.
I stretch my legs and prop myself up with one hand, watching his chest expand and collapse with every slow breath. His five o clock shadow moves like a river in the valley of his neck. I slip off the bed and meander to the window, seating myself on the sill beside him. Our legs intertwine, and I listen to his heartbeat and the dreams inside the cavity of his chest, my life inside his heart. We gaze out past the pond as we pass the pipe, quietly talking about this and that, the plant life clinging to the wall, the cluttered yard. Another breeze comes through the window as we stare out through it towards the pond and where other wild things live, the little billows of smoke escaping into other empty spaces.