THE GARDEN STIRS
- 7 days ago
- 1 min read
By Bob W Christian
Peace is a liar.
It wears a mask of soil and silence,
But beneath the garden, something breathes.
Not worms. Not rot.
Something that remembers my hands.
The farmhouse walls groan in tones too close to your voice.
At night, I hear footfalls in the hall…
Not the echo of my own,
But yours, dragging like broken promises.
The mirror is the first traitor.
Where once I saw resolve, now your grin.
Eyes black, glistening with remembered laughter,
The kind that came before pain,
Before the belts, the cellar, the ‘lessons’.
I dug your grave deep,
But the earth is a poor keeper of secrets.
It whispers at dusk,
Sings lullabies in your tone, off-key and venomous.
I burn sage. Salt. Books. My skin.
Nothing stops the smell of you:
Leather, sweat, basement mildew,
The musk of unholy patience
As you waited for me to cry.
I found dirt on the floor by my bed.
Handprints leading to the wall.
No child’s, no animal’s.
The shape is familiar
I remember those fingers around my throat.
Your voice is bolder now.
Less whisper, more command.
You tell me I did it wrong
That the grave is yours, but the punishment is mine.
I weep. The house shakes with laughter.
I no longer sleep. I dig.
Every night, the same garden.
The same screams.
Not from below
From me.
And the earth is getting soft again.
Something’s trying to come through.
Not worms. Not rot.
Something that remembers my hands.