Their Garden

The sight of their flowers made him feel at home every time he saw them. Their garden was always a great bastion of green if the vast orange ruin. They took immense pride in preserving the life when all that was left was stunted decay. He took every opportunity he could to see them, so when the chance arrose to deliver them a package, he leapt at the opportunity. The postal service, post-apocalypse, isn’t very reliable afterall. The journey was always long and was too often dangerous, but the payoff was made it worth it every time.

He set out into the eternal autumn with vigour. Outside The Cluster, the world was almost on pause. Nothing decayed and nothing new grew. Life doesn’t thrive in a place that stopped dying. The Cluster and other communities like it were no more than echoes and imitations of the life that once existed. They moved and housed the left overs of people, but alive was not among their traits. But the garden. Their garden. It was alive. It was new. He had no clue what they did to make this garden flourish like it does, but he knew it worked. He loved sitting in their garden and feeling like a part of the world again. He loved how the garden never left him feeling alone, even when he found that he was alone in their garden. This happened often, they spent a lot of time away from the garden. He found it strange how kempt the garden remained with no keeper, but nevertheless enjoyed the solitude when it was given to him, so he pressed on.

The ruined road carried him a fair way to the garden. He passed many gutted homes and burned stores as he followed the faded dotted lines in the asphalt. He took shelter in the back room of a small florist. The front of the store was littered with broken pot plants and the few bags of potting mix left had all been torn and spilled across the vinyl floor. This place would have once been so similar to their garden. Brimming with life and colour. Earthy and floral smells filling the nostrils of every customer when they stepped through the now shattered glass doors. But not even death graced these flowers. All the moisture that they once had was gone and those by the store window now sunbleached white. The colours that remained all seemed so stunted and washed out. Grey. But each piece of deathless remains made him all the more eager to see their garden. The stark contrast between the world and the garden grew the closer he got. As he left, he snatched the last remaining pair of pruning shears. The pair was rusted and blunt beyond belief but he thought they might appreciate the thought at least when he got there. He returned to his journey, gift in hand, excited to see their reaction to his clearly terrible gift picking.

After a hand full of days walking along the road he reached the point where he needed to break off from the once well beaten path and onto a path of his own making. This path wound upwards along the ridge of a large mountain. It danced between the trunks of the deathless orange trees as it crawled its way up. Not many followed this path, not many needed to. He had marked it himself with a collection of carvings, almost as fresh as the day he carved them. The hike took most of the day, so he arrived only minutes before the sun left. This let him watch the setting red sun bathe the trees in a brilliant orange light, highlighting the stark separation of oranges and greens that made up the border of the garden. The shadows stretched across the paths that wound between the many garden beds steadily growing as the light faded.

The sight took the breath from his already breathless body. Set in the centre of this sprawling garden dotted with bright flowers sat a small, well kept, concrete house. It was a simple one room block with many windows that looked out onto their surrounding garden in all directions. Between him and the building sat a small waist height box surrounded by a small collection of bees. These bees, and more throughout the rest of the garden, danced between the many flowers that filled the bed as they bumbled about their steady trip home. As he approached the house to finally deliver his package he was not worried that he could not see the recipient anywhere. This wasn’t the first time he had arrived at their garden when they weren’t home. The buzz of the sleepy bees was more welcome enough for him.

He was in no rush to return home, so he let himself in and placed the package down on a small table. It was a small box wrapped in brown paper with red string tied around it, meeting in a bow at the top. Pinned under the string was a small label that read, “Happy birthday, -love, Mum.” He also placed down the blunt pruning shears with a small note scrawled on a piece of scrap paper he found. It read, “Hey Sib, Happy birthday! I know its a little late but the travel from The Cluster takes time. And it takes more time if you’re looking for a birthday present at the same time. I hope you can find a use for these. Love, your brother.” Now his delivery was complete, he moved outside and sat down on the small stairs by the door as he waited for them to return. Enjoying the last few moments of sun as it faded between the trees.