(CREATIVE NONFICTION)
GARDEN INTERLUDE
JORDAN E. FRANKLIN
GARDEN INTERLUDE
JORDAN E. FRANKLIN
I
April is Rose season.
It is a fact Pop instills in you from young. Whether you’re six or eight or ten, it doesn’t matter. When Spring comes, it is always off to the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens. In this huge section, you find them and they sit under the sun like a big Rivera mural—a blend of reds and pinks and yellows—a burst of color in every step and you tear your hands away from Pop to absorb everything. When you adjust your eyes to the vibrant mosaic, you see hummingbirds. They hover in place, their wings like the Flash as he vibrates his molecules through solid matter.
II
There’s a section of the garden adorned in Japanese aesthetic and architecture. In the middle of all the small shrines and temples is a pond filled with turtles and koi. From his bag, Dad retrieves a loaf of bread. Before you feed them, he makes you take off the crusts so they won’t choke. You break off piece after piece and toss them in, amused as they buoy the surface before being devoured by the opportunistic water dwellers.
The koi are always too fast. By the time the turtles get the floaters in their sights, the koi pluck it from the pond’s face with all the charm of a taxi. Always trigger happy, the koi see no ally in their quest and will fight for their meager Wonderbread even against their own brethren. You always pity the turtles so you change tactics. You start to take a bread piece and drop it on one’s head as they near. The yeast rain is only a minor nuisance as they readily eat the offerings.
The koi are all rainbow tail flashes as they see it and torpedo to the spot. However, the turtle gets the meal.
III
The massive willow tree is one of your last stops in the garden. Shielded from the sun and the outside world by tassels of leaves, the three of us sit in its strong branches. The older you get, the closer you stay to the earth, each year adding a notch to the agoraphobia butterflying in your gut. Even on the lowest branch, you’re an acrobat as agile as Nightwing flipping across Gotham rooftops.
IV
You’re fifteen with acne and the thousand-yard stare meant only for high school. When you return to the garden, younger brother and father in tow, there are no roses and the willow tree no longer permits daredevils in its branches. You can’t feed turtles or koi anymore because some asshats too lazy to remove the crusts had made a few unfortunate, gilled souls belly up.
You chalk it up to global warming and the economy but there’s something else. Fifteen and you’re too big for hand holding.
It’s the last time you ever go.
April is Rose season.
It is a fact Pop instills in you from young. Whether you’re six or eight or ten, it doesn’t matter. When Spring comes, it is always off to the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens. In this huge section, you find them and they sit under the sun like a big Rivera mural—a blend of reds and pinks and yellows—a burst of color in every step and you tear your hands away from Pop to absorb everything. When you adjust your eyes to the vibrant mosaic, you see hummingbirds. They hover in place, their wings like the Flash as he vibrates his molecules through solid matter.
II
There’s a section of the garden adorned in Japanese aesthetic and architecture. In the middle of all the small shrines and temples is a pond filled with turtles and koi. From his bag, Dad retrieves a loaf of bread. Before you feed them, he makes you take off the crusts so they won’t choke. You break off piece after piece and toss them in, amused as they buoy the surface before being devoured by the opportunistic water dwellers.
The koi are always too fast. By the time the turtles get the floaters in their sights, the koi pluck it from the pond’s face with all the charm of a taxi. Always trigger happy, the koi see no ally in their quest and will fight for their meager Wonderbread even against their own brethren. You always pity the turtles so you change tactics. You start to take a bread piece and drop it on one’s head as they near. The yeast rain is only a minor nuisance as they readily eat the offerings.
The koi are all rainbow tail flashes as they see it and torpedo to the spot. However, the turtle gets the meal.
III
The massive willow tree is one of your last stops in the garden. Shielded from the sun and the outside world by tassels of leaves, the three of us sit in its strong branches. The older you get, the closer you stay to the earth, each year adding a notch to the agoraphobia butterflying in your gut. Even on the lowest branch, you’re an acrobat as agile as Nightwing flipping across Gotham rooftops.
IV
You’re fifteen with acne and the thousand-yard stare meant only for high school. When you return to the garden, younger brother and father in tow, there are no roses and the willow tree no longer permits daredevils in its branches. You can’t feed turtles or koi anymore because some asshats too lazy to remove the crusts had made a few unfortunate, gilled souls belly up.
You chalk it up to global warming and the economy but there’s something else. Fifteen and you’re too big for hand holding.
It’s the last time you ever go.
Jordan E. Franklin is a Black poet from Brooklyn, NY. An alumna of Brooklyn College, she recently earned her MFA from Stony Brook Southampton. Her work has appeared in the Southampton Review, Breadcrumbs, easy paradise, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, the Ekphrastic Review, and elsewhere. She is the winner of the 2017 James Hearst Poetry Prize offered by the North American Review, and a finalist of the 2018 Nightjar Poetry Contest. Currently, she is the poetry editor for Suffragette City Zine and is working on her first poetry collection.