stone garden

The dog won’t go beyond the lush overgrowth since Tatyana died.
She is still there you know.
Sometimes the wind unexpectedly becomes brisk and stone steps feel cold with an unwelcome notion even in the unending rays of August heat.

Alive, young and delicate, dancing barefoot she’d pretend the hot steps would lead to her very own grass roof cottage. Holding the can high she’d ask me to watch her pour long streams of coolness onto the stone steps holding the watering can in both hands like a wizard just to watch it evaporate, the stones turning white and clean, the path safely cleared down to her secret cottage nestled like a miniature fort in the tall thick grass.

Now the dog stops and bows at the rotted gate like she’s waiting, then suddenly lifts her head making eye contact with the invisible. I shudder as I watch a young girl’s footprints sink into the ground and recede into the distance. The rottenness smells of death, the dog cowers behind my legs, the water can has a cobweb echo, its spout rudely pointing intruders to leave, and nothing matters anymore.