Destiny

By T. S. Brannigan

The names floated through her head like falling leaves or petals borne aloft by a hot breath of summer. The old Latin names of common flowers- Achillea, Dianthus, Viola. Yarrow, Carnations, and Pansies. Words derived from famous Greeks or descriptions of plant anatomy. Achillea named after the Greek hero Achilles who was purported to use the plants for medicinal purposes. Mighty trees crowded for space among the flowers in her mind. Quercus, Acer, and Populus. Oaks, Maples, and Poplars.

All these names fought for space in the confines of her brain. The names had an exotic flavor to them as they slipped off her tongue, a different taste than basic American English. The words were all Latin or Latin derivatives, a so-called "dead language".

This knowledge somehow set her apart from other people. Made her sound more intelligent even though all she did was memorize names she thought of every day. The botanical names were her daily companions and made Latin come alive by constant use. In her more despondent moods she wondered what good it did. Who cared if she knew the scientific name of Honeysuckle was Lonicera?

Bookshelves in her cramped apartment were crammed full of books teeming with vegetative life. Open one and vibrant colors assaulted the eyes- fuchsias and ceruleans, mauves and tangerines, a kaleidoscope of rainbow shades. The books had taken over her home, crowding out chairs and home entertainment centers.

Plants were her dream, not her reality. Her reality was a tiny enclosed cubicle with a computer emitting a glow, reflecting off the pallor of her office induced skin. One anemic fern, suspended from the ceiling in a wire basket, was her only plant. It looked sickly, being too far removed from the windows to capture any sunlight and appear vibrant and healthy. She entered data all day long, fingers tap-tapping across the keyboard.

It was mindless work that allowed her thoughts to wander to lush gardens full of tropical orchids and emerald green ferns with jewels of water glistening on the fronds. Or she thought of English gardens packed with spicy scented roses in apricots, lemons, and ruby reds fighting for supremacy among lavenders and marigolds.

Sighing in her head, she wondered what had happened to those dreams. Those dreams of plunging her hands into black loamy soil, caking it under her fingernails, hot sun beating on her bare neck, her tresses jammed under a baseball cap. Planting beauty and brightness in an area devoid of life. Transforming it from bare dirt to life.

She had stupidly listened to her friends who said she'd never make any money, never have a real career simply being a gardener. What would she do in the winter when everything lay frozen and dormant? Heeding their advice, she had learned data entry and processing, all the ins and outs of current technology. Technology that warred a daily battle with nature.

Technology had won out in her life, but not in her mind and heart where she walked in sun-dappled gardens of resplendent beauty and dreamed of escaping to them. She wanted to be free to breathe in the fresh breeze and smell of freshly turned soil mingled with the perfumes of a riot of flowers. Her dream- so real in her own mind that she felt like she could walk through a magical doorway into her imaginary world. Her imaginary world felt more real than the world she lived in.
Day by day she slogged away entering and processing, lit only by artificial luminescence instead of natural golden sunlight. The seasons merged into one another, but were only noted in the office with the passing of decorations thumb-tacked to cubicle walls. First, pumpkins and witches appeared to be replaced by turkeys. These were closely followed by wreaths with light bulbs flashing on and off with random irregularity. The New Year breathed through with babies in diapers heralding a fresh start. On the heels of the babies came pink and red candy hearts left in glass candy dishes. And finally, Easter. Easter arrived adorned with chocolate bunnies and dyed eggs nestled in plastic grass peeking out of a pastel colored basket.

Even though she was ensconced in a fake environment, the quickening of spring entered her veins. She began walking to and from work and marveled at other people's attempts in their gardens, watching buds blossom and leaves spring out on naked branches. She wished constantly to have her own garden, no matter how small, to practice her craft. Not to simply know it from books, but to implement all she had gleaned from their pages.

An opportunity arose on a sparkling blue sky day in May. A friend of hers, who declared himself to be a plant's worst enemy, came to visit. Knowing her love of plant life, he employed her to please help fix his yard. Without even one doubt surfacing in her thoughts, she took his offer and some cash and raced to the nearest garden center.

Humming softly under her breath she ecstatically rolled her little red wagon through row after row of vegetation just begging to be bought and planted to flourish as nature intended. She declined a salesperson's offer of help with glee, knowing just what she wanted. She selected blood red roses and peonies with a mix of perennials thrown in - periwinkles and sages and spireas. Carefully, she perused through the fertilizers and mulches, choosing everything with extreme care. She even bought herself a straw sun hat to ward off the harmful UV rays. Joyfully, she sped across town to her friend's cozy townhouse complete with a postage stamp yard.

Painstakingly, she set her plants out in neat rows to make positively sure of their correct arrangement. Periwinkles next to sunny yellows, peaches mixed with whites, corals in harmony with rubies. Deciding she loved the overall effect, she industriously began to turn the soil, mixing in the recommended fertilizer, her hat strapped securely to her head.

The sun beat down, adding layer upon layer of heat to what had begun as a mellow morning. Shortly after she started, she realized she should have bought some work gloves as well, as the shovel handle began to chafe against her soft hands. That's okay, she decided, the rewards would far outstrip the sacrifice of a few layers of skin. Humming softly, once again, she eventually finished her first task, the sweat trickling down her neck to slime its way to her lower back.

Grunting, as she popped kinks out of unused muscles in her back, she gamely began making holes for the plants. Geez, that stupid sun is merciless, she mutinously thought, as the heat became almost unbearable, her T-shirt sticking to her back like a second skin. Finally, she thought with relief, as she dug the last hole and started the actual planting of her myriad plants.

Blisters started to pop on the palms of her hands and the gorgeous roses she had selected so lovingly, retaliated by scratching her hands with their sharp thorns. Her fingernails were chipped and dirt was ingrained in every wrinkle and crease of her fingers. Still, she resolutely plodded on , only intent now on finishing the job and finishing it as quick as possible.

Sighing in utter relief, the last plant installed, she stood up to admire her handiwork and tears of frustration filled her eyes. All the plants had taken on a bedraggled, dying look even after she had copiously watered them. My hands are ruined, dirt is everywhere, I'm hot and sticky, and the damn plants look positively horrid, she thought, hate beginning to take hold of her. Hate for nature and plants and the harsh sun.

This was not the benign sun and orderly gardens of her dreams. This was Hell. Apologizing to her friend who assured her, it was fine, the plants were simply in shock, she sped away even faster than she had arrived.

Returning to work on Monday, the florescent lights soothed her skin, not to hot to burn or cause sweat to pop out from all her pores. The computer screen seemed to welcome her as she began typing, her fingers instinctively knowing what to do. No blisters, scratches or dirt. The gardens in her mind movie theater still played. But she was content only to watch and dream.