THE COMPLETE GARDENER
For Melvyn Smith
- Geoffrey Philp (Jamaica)
Leaves blackened by neglect in a sunbaked
flower potnear the entrance of our communal
garbage bin, the headless stalk of a
chrysanthemum,
peeked from under a veil of tissue paper,
like a bride who’d been jilted at the altar.
Probably a gift to my neighbor whose
boyfriend
has been banging on her door for three weeks,
begging for a second chance, or maybe for my
neighbor
upstairs who grips the railing when he drags
his body
to his apartment since his mother died a
month ago,
I decided against the voice of my
thrice-divorced
father about wasting energy on something
that was going to die anyway, and introduced
her
to the lilies, irises, and other orphaned
plants
in my garden, so she could soak in the light
rain
the weatherman had promised that Friday
afternoon.
But the showers turned to thunderstorms,
ruining my wife’s plans for quiet time
on South Beach to reconnect and discuss
our plans in this uncertain future of plagues
and black flags near the lake where our
children
planted palms that now tower over their
heads.
So we binge-watched old movies on Netflix,
tried new recipes on our air fryer,
occasionally stepping outside to make sure
torrents from the gutters hadn’t swept her
away.
Our respite came on Monday morning
when I jumped out of bed before exercising,
trying to beat the garbage truck’s grumble,
when I glimpsed behind the leaves of an
anthurium,
I’d smuggled out of Jamaica after the death
of my best friend’s father-- who became my
father
for ten of his fifty-year marriage--how he
struggled
through a heart condition that would kill
him,
and with his water can and shears patiently
pruned
his roses and wayward bougainvilleas,
lavishing
attention on shy ferns—under the falling
petals
of frangipani, a bud bursting through her
hardened stem.
****