Paradise is Sinking
The barriers between life and death are crumbling.
Paradise is the smell of rain carried upon a deep southern breeze, mingled with the sweet, heavy scent of blooming jasmine, intoxicating gardenia and magnolia trees, laden with their lovely white and yellow fruits; gifting me their fragrance before the rain falls… to push, then gently pull their lingering aromas into the ground; there to be reborn.
The rain is always beautiful, always comforting. In it, I am not alone.
I meander along casually, sauntering down the ever-darkening path, and while passing the crape myrtle trees, bearing their crisp white, deep fuchsia, and tender lavender blossoms, I remember with a soft smile, a time when life was much simpler. Their delicately rippled flesh reminds me of the crêpe paper flowers that I made in second grade. They were pretty and easy to make. It was an outlet for my creativity. It made me feel special. It made me happy. I was good at it. It made the teacher happy. Simple.
That was my favorite time of day.
The breeze gently picks up, causing my ears to prick as the cicadas begin grinding out their unique chorus. I think about them hanging lazily up there, along with the moss that clings to the olde oaks that line the street – whispering of time – in the wet grave that is this ruined garden. Everything here seems to be slowly caving in upon itself.
The warnings were in place long ago, but history battles to preserve itself.
I can feel the electricity increase in the air around me. With its current passing through me, the energy it generates creates a warm, nuclear crawl up my spine, which releases, then spreads over my scalp; causing it to tingle and makes the fine hair on my arms lift – magnifying every sense. The sensation ends with me, instinctively, taking notice of the skies.
In anticipation, I watch as the encroaching clouds blacken with a gathering of the turbulent forces at work. I lower my eyes, take in a deep, relaxing breath and exhale pure contentment with a deep hum. When I open them, something from the periphery snags my attention.
In the shades of the great old Sanctuary I notice a strange movement.
The shimmering rays of sunlight dance briefly, then retreat, only to reappear, and then fade, shift, and emerge again; glowing triumphantly under the rapidly converging blanket of cumulonimbus cloud-cover, that signals the building volatility of the approaching storm. I find the twining symphony of dark, playing with light, captures and intrigues me with its dramatic effect. I narrow my eyes, intensely focus my vision, and am mesmerized by the secret souls of the old, European statues as they appear to move, whisper, and breathe with the rising wind, as the gently swaying branches of the trees dapple what remains of the blotted sun against their frozen bodies.
‘Béatifique,’ I whisper into the air.
I cannot stop watching. Suspiciously, I wonder just how much of the motion is merely a simple trick of light and… shadow-play.
‘They, not unlike me, must surely desire to dance under the coming deluge of nature’s bountiful fury,’ I muse, almost wistfully, and smile.
When I hear a warning clap in the near distance, it pulls me out of my mystical thinking. I resume my evening walk, by reluctantly picking up the pace. I am so lost in the sensory experiences, I’ve not noticed that the flagstone has buckled over the roots of the aged trees, and it catches my foot at an awkward angle, sending me head-first into a reeling, sidelong stumble. I regain my composure with the heat of rose-blush inflaming my cheeks, and a sudden, pressing yearning to find shelter.
The magical moment is broken.
The sky forks lightning with a violent crack and rumble, then opens above me.
I lift my face to the heavens; I raise my arms; my eyes shutter and close…
I feel the serenity of my garden paradise spin and sink.
