khier
there are worse things
than being alone
but it often takes
decades to realize this
and most often when you do
it's too late
and there's nothing worse
than too late
T
here is an old woman I visit every few days who sits in the city gardens. I have never spoken with her, but her name is Thistle, and I know this because there are days when a young man visits her and they walk through the gardens of Delumine side-by-side. I remember it because I have heard it spoken and have trouble believing she is named after a weed; the fact sits strangely with me. I have questions, but I do not have the courage to ask her about them. I have had the opportunity to speak with her on a number of occasions, and the young man is not always there; but for whatever reason I have found my tongue tied or my legs weak. I think it is because she reminds me of my grandmother, who raised me with more stability than my mother ever could. My grandmother had a name I never spoke; I called her Oma. I remember her and I remember the smell of bread baking. I remember the nights my mother did not come home, but Oma did, to feed or bathe me as a young boy. I remember how she had been married, once, to a man who died in the war. She had clear blue eyes and a disposition both soft and hard.
Thistle, in any respect, reminds me of Oma. It is the way she speaks to the young man, I think. I did not mean to overhear them that first day as they walked; but I did; and now I visit her every few days in the gardens. I busy myself with reading, or toss a stick for True. I have made it a routine and I am observant enough to recognize there are a number of individuals who frequent the gardens at the same time as Thistle and I. There is the man who smokes a cigar each afternoon by the roses, and the young girl who carries a satchel of books home from the library. There is a woman who wears a red scarf and busily walks along the various trails before leaving in as much of a hurry. There is the older gentlemen who sits by the fountain and reads. There is an artist that I see occasionally, but often enough that their presence is missed when they are not there. They paint.
And anyways, it is not so strange, I think, to have a routine of walking through the gardens with True at the exact same time Thistle walks with the young man. I am often close enough to hear the nature of their conversations. She asks him, sometimes, how things are going with a girl named Sable. There are weeks the relationship goes well, and there are weeks it seems on the verge of failure. She asks him what he is currently studying, and he tells her in an animated way. Then he will ask what she has been doing, and Thistle will always discuss a book or a poem or the sunset from the night before. Simple things, that Chara loves, and sometimes Chara will tell me stories. I did not have a grandmother, she tells me. My mother was nearly a goddess. But if I had had a grandmother—I would have wanted it to be a woman like Thistle.
Today is no different, I think, except Thistle is not there, and neither is the young man. I find myself taken aback, and wait. I find a stick and toss it back and forth on a patch of nicely manicured grass for True, who runs excitedly after. Occasionally he returns it. Occasionally he breaks it, and I am forced to find another adequate stick. This distracts me, until the sun begins to set and Thistle does not arrive.
The young man, however, does. He does, and he paces back and forth in front of the statue where they have often met. Then he leaves and I find the lack of information unbearable.
Perhaps she is only sick, Chara suggests, but my stomach is sinking and I do not respond. I begin to walk through the intricate garden instead, hiding between hedges and trees. True pads alongside me until I dip into an alcove of intertwined trees. I walk further and pause only when I reach a statue of a globe. I stand for a moment and attempt to catalogue the islands I see; but I quickly realize the statue is fantastical, with only Novus present. I close my eyes but realize, after a moment, I am no longer alone. I turn toward them and nearly smile. Nearly.
“This is my secret spot,” I admit, with a candidness that is both playful and severe. True barks, and shatters the silence of the garden laid beneath a blanket of dusk.
