Fiction: From The Hospital To My Garden

I am doing an online writing course from The Univ. of Iowa. This was written as an assignment submission.


I am sitting on the hospital bed. It is a small room, almost triangular. Clean and in its decor, sterile. White ceramic tiles with a vague blue pattern cover the walls till 4 feet height and the remaining walls are white-washed. Apart from my bed there is a thin bed near the grilled window for someone from the family who might be accompanying the patient. It is a boring, functional room but being here has helped me relax. Now, at least for some days, I need not worry about food and cleaning. The difference, after all, between jail, hospital, and hotel is superficial. Home is another matter though. Home is made of weird intangibles such as laughter, joy, safety, freedom…

Now that my mind is free to wander, I start wishing there were beautiful paintings on the walls. I start wishing for a more aesthetic place. What to do? Beauty energizes me. So though the body is not strong enough to travel yet, I decide to go home.

You see, my home is in my heart. I can go there whenever I want. At home, there is a beautiful garden. And water. Water is so important. And so there is a small fountain. You know, the kind that runs on electricity, with water falling down three bowls at three levels and then the smart intelligent water climbing up again using its friend, the motor, so that it may fall once again. My mother gave it to me. It is quite amazing actually. The gentle sound of the fountain is so similar to my husband’s voice.

In front of the fountain, there is a small wheelbarrow. It is there for a very specific purpose. You see, behind the wheelbarrow, behind the fountain, grows a Haarsingaar tree. Flowers of the Haarsingaar tree fall on the grass at early dawn. They are shaped like small stars, with one small sun-ray attached to the center of each flower. My hubby has a quirky practice with these flowers. He chooses two from those that fall into the wheelbarrow, and places them on my sleeping eyelids every morning. In doing so, again and again, He makes my heart safe and free.

Oh, hey! He is calling. He has another quirky practice. Instead of hollering, He calls using deep silence. So really sorry, gotta go. Thank you for sharing my garden with me.

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