I first saw him in the gardens. Upon arrival, he kissed my feet and thanked them for carrying me here. A deep, soft rasp licked my ears at his speech. Surrounding us were pretty purple and blue flowers, which he later told me were “delphinium,” and trees so short you could barely see the bark. The air hit my skin like cool powder. With many miles on my soles, I had no desire to return to my source, knowing death would meet me first. Relief washed over me at the sight of a well, finally able to quench my face and splash my thirst. Crisp!

The man led me to the deer, the butterflies, the rabbits, and the snakes. He feared none, so neither did I. When I was dirty, he cleaned me. Hungry? He fed me. I lacked nothing, and he asked nothing. If he had any idea of the quality of the foundation I maintain, he would have scorned me and fed me to the fauna. And I am completely certain that if he had any role in that foundation, he would have been dead by now. Yet, his generosity remains a mystery to me. I questioned his motives until acceptance settled, persuading myself it was God’s recompense for my journey. I deserved it. That is what I told myself, again and again.

The safety of the garden felt unnatural, its calmness intimidated me. It set forth expectations and values I could not quite uphold. For all that I did not know, I now understand the plan of nature: to move on, to push forward, to provide, to sustain. But it seemed his body had other plans. As the days progressed, I saw him grow weaker and weaker. I wondered how he had survived here all this time without me. Yet, he still gave, leading me along the stony paths, continuously fetching my water. He prepared all sorts of soups and teas and meats to my liking. His hand was never not outstretched in generosity. He dwelled in the refusal of my own offerings (not that I offered help sufficiently). He would only look at me with quiet deference at the very thought.

His final day was consummated by his failure to lift the rock I had given as a test. Around the time of his passing, the animals of the garden and I gathered around him; even the flowers leaned toward the center we created. With my head on his chest, I listened as he took one final sip of air. He never let it out. I believe that air is still in his lungs. It rests there until he is ready to let go. Let go of the responsibility he shared with the garden: to move on, to push forward, to provide, to sustain. Or maybe it was the last and only thing he kept for himself.

See, the garden never worked to sustain itself, but to sustain the life kept in it. That is, the garden itself. He did the same. As time passed after his death, I realized I was not meant for such a place. For such selflessness. For such beauty. What the garden and the man gave me was not love. It was service, regard. It was simply inherent to them.

I come from wolves. From eat or be eaten. I knew not the delicacies of the garden’s nature. Though I tried, I only ever did what benefited my own body. I walked the paths to strengthen my own legs. I harvested the bees’ honey to sweeten my own tea. I watched the butterflies flutter for my own entertainment. I stepped on the snakes out of my own fear and misjudgment. I even buried his body not out of reverence, but to rid the garden of the smell. A fitting rationale for a girl who had once been sustained by that same body.

The garden tried its damndest to stay alive. Perhaps not for me, but for his memory, for the flora and fauna. It did try, but I must have been too much, or not enough. The deer flinched at my passing. The butterflies hid in the shadows. The hum of the bees grew faint, then faded into silence. The delphinium sagged, and the well dried up. Misery was apparent and I was to blame.

On my last day there, only 6 days after his death, I simply took a jar of whatever honey I could harvest, plucked the prettiest, healthiest delphinium, and went on my way. I do not know if the garden ever recovered from my presence of body and absence of care, or if the leech had sucked it dry. All I know is that when I returned home, my people were dead, and I was in search of another garden like the one I had destroyed.