Whispering Willows / The Gardener

“Just a minute.” A voice calls out from the thick blueberry bushes. Slowly rising from the top of the bush was an old man, who’s warm skin hued pink at the tip of his nose. On his head was a worn-out hat, with a green checkerboard cloth dangling off of its side. The man takes the cloth and wipes his forehead gently with it, replacing it back to the hat. “You ought to be more patient Mr. Halman, the fruits of labor cannot be rushed.” He says, shuffling over with a heavy bucket full of berries. Irelle motions to help him, but Halman stops her. “Mr.Finnigan, I believe I had mentioned my fiance to you before…” Halman says, holding Irelle by her hip. Mr.Finnigan lifts his head and smiles. “Ah, the damsel.” He coos. “Halman has told me many stories of you.” He places the bucket under the garden’s faucet and begins rinsing the berries. “Today would be a good day for pie, wouldn’t you say? My wife used to be this home’s baker. Every season when the blueberries were at first ripe she’d bake us up a mean pie.” Mr.Finnigan dips his hands into the bucket and tosses the fruits around.

For a moment Irelle stared at Mr.Finnigan’s hands making work of the berries, rinsing them with good haste but gentle touch. His short hair stuck in small clumps from the sweat of the day, as his eyes focused with intent. He was very stout for an old man, such is the way of a gardener. Mr.Finnigan scoops a wet handful of blueberries and raises it to Irelle. “Would you care to try this season’s first fruit?” He asks. Irelle takes the handful and picks between the berries, many of the berries looked tart, to her disliking. Mr.Finnigan notices. “You know, many children abstain from blueberries because one berry never tastes quite the same as the other. They couldn’t tell which one tasted best. But in a pie? You could never tell. Every fruit that would blossom here, my wife would bake into something scrumptious. Raspberry crowns, peach cobblers, triple berry tartlets, the list could go on. But her specialty was always her blueberry pies. Im sure if she were still here she’d take this bucket right off of my hands and make us one right now…”

Irelle looks at Mr.Finnigan, who now seems dazed off, rinsing the fruit. Halman interrupts by turning off the faucet. “I think that should be it for the day Mr.Finnigan.” He says, helping to drain the excess water from the bucket. Mr.Finnigan tips his hat and walks away without a word. Irelle stands still, her hand still holding the tart berries left behind. Halman smiles, holding the bucket. “He never stops talking about his wife. He could go on forever if he could. Maybe that’s why he still works back here, the garden reminds him of when she was still here.” Irelle frowns. “Did she die?” Halman shakes his head and points to the side as if referencing something in the far distance. “She retired. Arthritis.”