Originally written on November 10, 2021
This house is empty. There are still people who live inside but they are not here anymore. Their bodies move through the motions. Wake up, shower, eat, sleep, repeat. No laughter. No sound aside from the shuffling of feet and the creak of the door closing them away. From us. From themselves. Two bodies living in tandem yet silent and empty. The garden has to make up for it. The missing life. Bright and dense the garden is persistent in staying alive. Calling out in hopes that others will find their way back once more. Wild. A glimmer of who used to tend to it. Excited for what could be. The possibility of new life welcoming the honey bees to visit. Outside alone in the elements. Taking a sigh of relief each spring when the weather warms and the buds return. The blossoms chatter to one another in their quiet language of colour. Filling the void. They don’t talk in this house anymore. Nods and clipped words. They don’t remember how to draw back the weighted curtain between us. They keep them shut. Outside there is always conversation going on. Who’s getting the best light. Shouts of delight when the wild rose bud finally finds its way open. They don’t know how to be quiet. They were created to be bold. The outside is how the inside used to be. Fresh. Vibrant. Full of gifts to share. Now it’s empty. Tired. Quiet. Maybe that’s what happens. Maybe there was no getting around it. There is hope. Hope that the flowers and plants will pick up their roots and march themselves in. They’ll open the door without knocking. Trail their dirt and worms and bees all over the front room. The smell of earth and petals overpowering the stagnant air. There will be so many that there’s only a tiny sliver of room for the people. They’ll have to stand close. The stems of sunflowers binding the people together. They’ll hold hands. They’ll finally see each other. They’ll inhale the smell of each other remembering the scent they make together. The room will fill. The house will expand to accommodate the long overdue guests. The people will have leaves in their hair and dirt on their clothes. They’ll be safe. Finally home. After all of that silence they’ll find their own language again. Alive with new found excitement. Until then they hope. They wait. They peek outside looking for a sign that the roots will grow feet. Dig their hands quietly into the dirt up to their wrists to feel around. No feet today. No sign of movement. Back inside to the empty house leaving the door unlocked. Just in case.