When his grandfather’s hands could no longer guide him, Andre brought the garden to him. He plucked apples from the tree and placed them in his awaiting palms. He estimated amounts of fertilizer and let him weigh it by feel. He scooped mud and passed it to his grandfather in a handshake, and he’d chuckle and say That was the perfect amount of water.
Andre works quickly when he returns home. He digs the hole by hand where his grandfather once placed his prized hibiscuses, deep enough to cover the squirrel’s body and its cocoon of thorns. When he’s finished, he cups water from the algae-filled pond and douses the earth just as he’d learned.
Then he calls his grandfather, which goes to voicemail.
“Hey Papaw, I’m just calling to say I love you,” he says. “You know, I always listened to all your lessons because I thought if I did then I’d have everything I needed. You told me to find something I care enough about to master, and I really tried. But I think I messed up somewhere. Papaw, I’m sorry but I dropped out of school and I don’t really know what I want. But I know I wanted you to be proud of me. I just don’t know how to fix myself unless you show me how.”
Andre wipes his face with dirty hands.
“I cleaned the garden just like you showed me. It’s all ready to go for next summer. I can’t wait for you to see what we’re going to grow.
“Just don’t…just please don’t…”
The voicemail times out. Andre wants to call back, wants to plead for more time. But the wind begins to blow, stirring the plant’s fruits like chimes in the night. Their fragrance drifts through the garden. It’s so sweet. So sickly. So revolting.