Ascension Garden

By Stacy Murison

May 9, 2016

Ascension Garden

The first time, you drive by yourself. You have some idea you are going there, but are still surprised that you know the way, without her, through the turning and turning driveways. Left, left, left, left. Park near the rusted dripping spigot. The wind blows, unseasonably warm for November. You bring the candy bar, her favorite, the one from the specialty chocolate shop, the one with the dark chocolate and light green ribbon of mint. You try to eat yours, but instead, stare at hers, unopened, where you imagine the headstone will go and sob without sound while the wind French-braids your hair just as she would have, and that’s how you know she is here. She is still pushing cicada shells off white birch trunks with her toes, dancing around pine trees with roses garlanded in her hair, singing of her love of tuna and string beans, of percolated coffee, of lemon waxed floors, of gelatin molds, of cherries, of lilacs, of chicken soup, of kasha, of home sweet home, of you.

Image provided by Rachael Towne 
via Flickr's Creative Commons licence.

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