“I’m going to step outside for some air. I’ll be right back,” I tell them. Jason raises an eyebrow but nods, knowing I needa few minutes alone to process the day. I offer a quick smile, a promise to return.
I step across the stepping stones that lead to the house next door.
As I approach, the first thing I notice is that the old picket fence surrounding the backyard is freshly painted. A pale pink color, from a distance, looks white. “Mom would have loved this color,” I whisper to the silence. The house, too, is charming again. Fresh paint, new shutters. I bet it looks like a fairytale cottage in the spring with all the blooms.
It looks nothing like the house my dad let slip through his fingers.
Before I can think better of it, I unlatch the gate.
As I step through, my eyes, expecting the barren concrete slabs that suffocated the wildflowers, suddenly widen.
Where the earth had been scarred by my father's misguided anger, it is now a vibrant sanctuary. A slightly larger potting shed sits at an angle in the yard, with rows of tilled land waiting for seeds. A memory of my mother and me dancing among them like bees and butterflies flash in my mind, and I smile.
The screen on the back door creaks open. I turn to face the woman, who appears to be in her forties, and looks so much like my mother. Same long, brown, wavy hair, and bright blue eyes. The manner of dress is so familiar. My eyes sting at the resemblance.
“Can I help you?” the woman asks.
I shake my head and clear my throat. “I-I’m so-sorry. I was visiting Ms. Tibball next door. I wanted to see my old house. I didn’t mean to intrude.” I turn toward the gate and take a couple of steps.”
“You used to live here?” Her words cause my feet to pause.
I can’t speak in fear of sobbing. I nod instead.
“I’m Jennifer. I bought the home a couple of years ago and have been doing small projects since. It’s been a passion project for me. It’s nice to meet you-”
“Ben. I’m…Ben.”
“Ben?” She says, brows furrowing before her eyes widen. “Oh. Ben. Your mom was in a car accident. About five or six years ago?”
I nod again. “Seven. I was only fourteen when it happened.” I’ve gone through so much in life already, and it hardly feels like I'm in my early twenties. I clear my throat. “I was…in the car with her.”
“I’m terribly sorry for your loss. When I bought the house, my realtor told me about it. But then, I started piecing things together after I moved in. Jennifer’s smile falters for a fraction of a second. “The day you…the day of the accident,” she begins, voice steady, “I was working my shift in the emergency room. I remember the ambulance arriving. The urgency. And then, you were brought in.” A faint memory, like a ghost brushing against me. “There was something about you… a quiet strength, I saw in you.”
Although Jennifer’s expression grows serious, I don’t find pity in her eyes. Just an acknowledgment of a difficult past.
“I…I don’t remember much of that time. It’s all a bit of a blur. I was mostly fine, just a light concussion, some bruises, and scratches. It was like I was underwater. Sounds muffled.”
“I understand,” she says, her tone laced with reassurance.
“Mom died at the scene,” I whisper. Jennifer nods. “This yard was a wildflower garden. Mom and I would spend hours and hours out here together. My dad demolished it because he couldn't stand looking at it. The memories hurt too much, I think.”
Jennifer just lets me talk as I step over to the freshly tilled soil.
The scent of freshly turned earth is intoxicating, a promise of new beginnings. I kneel down and pick up some of the soil. The texture felt familiar in my palm. A surge of contentment brushes over my soul. This garden, even in its new iteration, already feels like a haven.
“It’s beautiful. I can picture it, all filled with blooms.” I take a deep, steadying breath. “Thank you. It’s like you’ve revived her memory. Her passion.”
I push myself up, brushing dirt from my jeans.
“I’ve been spending every spare moment out here. It’s amazing what a little sunshine and some careful pruning can do.” She gestures around the colorful stakes that label what flowers will be planted. “Ms. Tibball was right, this place has always had good bones, or should I say good roots?”
I giggle, a high, pleasant sound.
“She said the garden had a special energy. It just needed someone to truly understand it.” Jennifer, then her gaze softened. “I’m glad you were able to visit. I hope the new garden can erase the concrete images you had from before.”
“They do,” I admit.
“When Ms. Tibball told me about this house, about your mother’s passion for this garden, it resonated deeply. She described this place, not just the house, but the way the light falls through the trees onto the garden, as sounding like a sanctuary. And I knew I needed to revive it in my own image.’”
