Spring. The house has a soft ache to it, like it’s just woken up and doesn’t want to be looked at. Martin clears a corner of the garage. Buys hooks. Hangs tools as if expecting someone to admire the order. He plants seeds in mismatched pots: basil, chard, and one wild attempt at nasturtiums. The packet says, “Bold and edible.” He’s neither. Still, he waters. The first sprout lifts its head, and he hopes. He tightens the hose connection. He texts no one. There’s joy in watching things work quietly, the green where there was only blankness. On the porch, he sets a second chair. No one sits in it. The air smells like things beginning again, not miraculously, but because they have to. A robin builds a nest in the gutter. He doesn’t disturb it. He goes inside when it sings too loudly.
Fall comes on slowly, then suddenly. The chard bolts. The basil sours. The nasturtiums never flowered. Martin gathers the brittle stalks anyway and lays them gently in the bin like small failed intentions. The compost receives them. It’s grown rich, almost alive. He stirs it with something close to tenderness. Adds coffee grounds, orange peels, a piece of bread he couldn’t bring himself to toast. He keeps the second chair out, though the evenings are cold now. He arranges a folded blanket on it, then removes it. The wind shifts. The nest is empty. One morning, he finds the first frost has browned the marigolds. His one bright, stubborn thing. Martin stands in the yard too long, holding nothing when he usually sprays a hose. The world doesn’t break. It just stops blooming. He lets it. He breathes. He opens the bin, steam rising, and drops in the last tomato, soft and sweet. Almost perfect.
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