Macy's Garden: A Song in the Midst of Grief
By: Cassandra Green
Grey mornings covered in overcast skies. Chilled air after rainy nights. She awakens to drafty loneliness. She tries to shake off the empty drum in her heavy heart. It droops low into her hollow stomach, but nothing can shake the burden of grief. It can only be walked through, so without a thought she goes to her garden.
She wanders with bare feet, sinking into the rich soil. Dirt clings in-between her toes, covering her soft skin in rough, wet earth. She feels drenched in rain and tears as the morning fog frames her heart in a deep frost. The branches around her reach, but never come close. They’ve been pruned, cared for, seen and prepared. Prepared for her to walk by in this moment, untouched in her solitude, but not alone. Reached for, but on her own.
Birds sing distantly through the haze. She continues on and finds her place. A bench hidden in the midst of low hanging trees and thick roots. She sits, not minding the soaked wood. And she closes her eyes to pray and think, to let the sodden landscape saturate and let her be. To pause time so she can breathe or not breathe, so she can do whatever she needs to…
But just as she rests her head low, there below her feet is a tiny glare. A quick flicker of light, metal within the puddled water. Without a thought, she drops to her knees and gently smears the mud away, revealing a long instrument. She lifts it up from the mud and continues in her effort to wipe away the grain and rust. A flute.
A flute. An instrument. A utensil for music and song. A language. An expression of ache and yearning. A way to surpass her own words and lift up her story in a voice stronger than her own. An intricate piece of metal created to bring beauty into any place. Even here, even in this garden covered in heavy rainfall at the beginning of this season.
A shudder escapes her body as she remembers a sweet, sweet song. A comforting melody and a close harmony to layer and fill and bring weight to anchor her heavy heart. A sob escapes her mouth as she realizes that her song is not over, time has not stopped and she is still breathing.
Breathing in cold air and abundant earth. She can smell the way dirt smells after rain. Fresh and living, like worms wriggling around and caterpillars crawling on dripping tomato plants. Like leaves changing colors and falling, like a storm revealing hidden secrets in a well-kept garden.
