Chapter 10 - The Art of Remembering
Six months later.
It was a bright, clear Saturday morning in early May.
The air in Baltimore smelled of blooming honeysuckle, fresh-cut grass, and the crisp, salty breeze blowing off the Inner Harbor.
I stood in the garden behind Elmwood Avenue, wearing an old pair of denim overalls, dirty gardening gloves, and a straw hat. A tray of fresh white lily bulbs lay on the grass beside my knees, waiting to be planted along the stone border near the patio.
My sister, Elena, walked out onto the back porch carrying two glasses of iced lemonade.
"How’s the garden coming?" she called out, stepping down the stairs.
"Almost finished," I said, wiping a streak of dark soil from my forehead with the back of my gloved wrist. "The lilies should be blooming by mid-June."
Elena handed me a glass of lemonade, sitting down on the wooden bench nearby. "I saw Arthur Pendelton at the market this morning."
"Oh?" I asked, taking a cool sip. "How is he?"
"He said the firm hired a new senior director from Philadelphia to take over Marcus’s old division," Elena said. "A woman named Clara. Arthur said she’s restructured the entire department and brought in forty million in new institutional accounts."
"Good for Arthur," I smiled.
"Did he tell you about Marcus?" Elena asked cautiously.
I set my glass down on the grass and sat beside her on the bench. "I don't ask about Marcus, Elena."
"He’s living in a small apartment in Towson," she said anyway, her voice quiet. "He’s working as an independent tax preparer for a small firm near the mall. His mother had to sell her Cadillac to help him pay off the IRS penalties."
I looked out at the garden—at the neat rows of soil, the green sprouts of tulips pushing through the earth, the high wooden fence that enclosed my yard in quiet, absolute safety.
I didn't feel joy at his circumstance, nor did I feel pity. Marcus was simply a man who had made his choices, paid his debts, and was now living in the quiet, narrow space he had carved for himself.
"Do you ever miss it?" Elena asked softly. "The eleven years?"
I looked down at my left hand.
The skin where my wedding ring had sat for over a decade was completely normal now. The pale mark had faded under the summer sun, replaced by a warm, even tan. My fingers were strong, steady, and unburdened by platinum or promises that couldn't survive a hotel room in Annapolis.
"I don't miss the eleven years, Elena," I said, standing up and picking up my trowel to begin planting the last lily bulb. "I only miss the person I thought I was building them with."
"And who are you building for now?" she asked with a warm, sisterly smile.
May you like
I leaned down, placed the fresh white bulb into the dark, rich earth, and smoothed the cool soil over its top, pressing it down firmly into the ground.
"For myself," I said, looking up at the bright, endless blue sky above my home. "And that is more than enough."
