“Your garden is empty.” He flicks the butt of a cigarette; the ashes fall to the floor, little gray gems upon glistening snow. His chuckle across the table floats gently through the air, and a pack of half-empty cigarettes sits between us. “It’s December, idiot.” The answer seems so simple: in my mind, you never see growth in the winter months, but that doesn’t mean that growth is not on the verge of emergence. “The trees look dead.” A smile and the pleasant flick of the flint of the lighter rings through the crisp winter air. The tree does look dead, its branches barren, and a stump of a limb trimmed off juts awkwardly from its trunk. It’s alive, though, beneath the earth. Its roots still pull for moisture, its wood still strong, its limbs hold up lights draped lazily across the yard.
“I feel dead,” its told with the air of a joke, and I manage to gain a chuckle from across the table. The truth is hidden lazily behind the mask of humor. I do, in fact, feel dead, but my arms are still strong, my breath still rises in the winter air, mixing with the smoke that hangs between us. I still wake in the morning and sing in the shower. Where is the growth? The question lingers unpleasantly upon the forefront of my mind. “Maybe it's just taking a break.” I don't know if its a statement to myself or one simply to fill the silence. A pause, a pause in the conversation, in the life of the tree, in the warmth of the sun, a pause as if nature has laid down and draped a white blanket across the once green grass.
Another flick rings through the air, and the flame is warm against the inside of my palm; the smoke of a new cigarette spreads warmth through my chest. “You have to quit, man.” Just like that, the pause is over, and a chuckle escapes from my lips, a joke filled with irony; a menthol still dangles perilously from a smile stretching across his face. “Maybe we all need a break.” He says it like it’s the most obvious answer.
A pause is natural; after all, we take one every night. We close our eyes, our breath slows, and we sink into the embrace of sleep's silence. Our muscles take the time to mend, and our dreams give our minds a glimpse of our heart’s status. A pause is crucial. The dough kneaded by kind and tender hands must sit upon the sill of a sunny window to rise. I flick the butt of the cigarette, and watch raindrops of gray sizzle upon the spotless snow beneath my feet. “Still, it’s not a pleasant view.” His words hang heavy in the air. They seem to linger in front of me as heavy as the smoke that escapes my lips.
My mind drifts to spring. Spring is beautiful, the flowers stretch their colorful arms wide and turn eagerly to the sun. Summer is kind; it glistens upon our skin, and the clouds dance across the sky. Fall is tender; its cool breeze kisses our cheeks, and oranges and yellows fill our eyes with wonder. Lightly gloved hands hold each other on quiet evenings.
Winter is harsh. The animals that once played happily now settle in for a pause. The trees under which we once found forgiving shade drop their leaves. Evening walks are traded for fires in cozy rooms. The world takes a much-needed pause, but objectively, it’s not pretty. The joys of the winter are artificial. Hands warmed against mugs of hot chocolate, houses filled with the smell of sweet pastries, and cinnamon-filled cookies. It’s not a season of beauty but one of simple necessity. Disguised as one of joy and connection. “Yeah, man.” It’s the only normal response I can think of, yet my mind dances across the complexity of this idea of a pause. Still, I know I won’t share it in a strange yet comforting way; this pessimism is mine. After all, much like the world, I’m not dead; I’ve simply taken a pause.
A yawn breaks me from the trance of thoughts that held my attention. “You getting tired?” A question asked out of polite acknowledgment, I know the answer is “Yes. On queue, another flick of flint against steel fills the air and another flower of warm, comforting heat blossoms in my lungs. “Pass me one?” Another question born from the required manners of conversation: “Yeah, of course.” Like the intricate steps of the most ancient rituals, we exchange the understood currency of our conversation. The chair creaks beneath me, and I lean back, looking at the stars. The path of the conversation as barren as the tree in the yard. Our dedication to the conversation is seemingly nothing more than an unwillingness to be alone. There is a comfort in that, though. My mind is completely removed from our exchange and instead stuck within the thoughts of everything I’m feeling. My oblivious, kind companion is happy to have company and a lighter.
“Your Garden is still empty.”