stone garden, part II

Tatyana, how many times I’ve said I love you. One year later, the dog is now brave enough to follow me every time I intrude into that cool solitude nestled beyond those white stone steps. I follow the dog stealthily hoping to catch a shadowy vision of the girl. I manicure the ivy from her cottage and pull weeds, but the next day it is re-grown and impassible. Except for the beautiful rose, you see. That sulfur bloom, mirroring the shade of Tatyana’s skin.

Why is the rose untroubled? It does seem my only connection to touching her again, I’m glad it is there. So, I’m clearing one day to allow it to breath untouched, and digging with the spade I hit something hard twice and it’s a shallow corroded line. Laid in 1899 by an amateur without a permit I figure by the looks of all those wayward elbows. The dog gets it just as bad as me, we’re soaked. The flow halts somehow and it is quiet.

Dripping and shivering, I look into the dogs eyes and before I can plead for her to be still she shakes and sprays me a second time like a museum fountain on a windy day, the scattered sunlight piercing the droplets and flashing a prism of colors in the shape of a young girl. Is that laughing I hear? The dog’s tail is wagging furiously. She knew all along. The cottage door squeaks ajar. Tatyana, I shall return with an oil can. I promise.