The lawnmower starts on the first pull. He must have fixed it. The sweet scent of fresh cut grass drifts down through the holes in the lawn. Jeffery aerated yesterday. He is a conscientious gardener. The flower beds are meticulously weeded, the trees are trimmed, and the house plants are tendered like the babies we never had. I wish I'd been a rose or an elm or even a cactus. Perhaps, his eyes would have fallen on me with the love he shines on his earthy passions.

 

It was a jackrabbit morning in Calgary the day he put me to rest. Beautiful bunnies, half white, half brown, were leaping across streets and dashing through yards. The spring air was crisp and the sun sparkled like diamonds on the scattering of snow left on the ground from yet another late winter storm. I was hopping with delight in anticipation of the change in season, one that had been so long in arriving. 

 

My husband surprised me at the door as I returned from my shopping excursion. He's never done that before. When he pulled out a box from behind his back, I was puzzled. 

 

"A gift for you, Sherry," he said. 

 

"Are we celebrating something?" I asked.

 

"I hope so," he said.

 

When I tore off the flowered paper and opened the box within, I discovered my favourite lozenges. "Wow, these are only available in England."

 

Jeffery chuckled. "Well, you can get anything on Amazon these days, my dear." He held out his hand. "Hand me a lozenge. I want to see if they're as good as you say."

 

He knew me so well. My love for these treats meant I never shared them. I plopped down on the couch and stuck a lozenge in my mouth. It melted on my tongue. Funny, it wasn't the taste I remembered. I looked up at my husband. 

 

"I figured your greed would kill you," he said. "I know you think I'm just a boring old gardener. But Sally, the lady at the Calgary Horticultural Society doesn't. She said I'm interesting." 

 

I hate gardening, I thought. Then nothing.

 

I'm cold. Wind chimes tinkle. I must be buried by the old oak in the backyard. He's dug a big hole to cover me, which explains the turf he bought the other day. He'd said it was to replace the bald spot by the tree.  Silly me, I never noticed a bald spot by the tree. Never even questioned him. He's planned this all along. And here I didn't think he could plot his way to the toilet. Clever guy. 

 

My body is decaying. I'll be compost before summer. I'm dying to see if he wins the neighbourhood garden championship this year. As I said, I'm not into gardening but I've done my bit. I hope he remembers to thank me. Maybe he'll even engrave my name on the back of a bench and place it under the tree. That would be so lovely.

 

---

 

Cindy Morris has been a member of the Alexandra Writers' Centre Society since 2012. Her published efforts include poems, short stories, newspaper articles, and a personal essay. She is currently working on a novel. Cindy's chapbook Camelia Manor was launched in early 2024 and her story Jackrabbit Morning won the member-exclusive Many Voices Contest in September 2023.