The Greenhouse
My love is not always here. He comes and goes with the stars and the breeze. In his absence, I lie alone in the ruins of my home and pass the hours staring up at the sky through what panes of glass still remain between its ornate steel bones. In his presence, I lie there still, unmoving, but happy knowing he is beside me looking at the same sky.
Around us, the greenhouse brims with ivy and moss. Honeysuckle grows in patches of light. The orchard outside has crept in, roots from untended apples and plums pushing through the cracks in the cobbled floor. Decay is a word that flits across my mind often, and yet to me the conservatory is just as full of life as it was in the days of its human-tended glory. The flowers hum with the song of the bees. Birds flit through empty windows and hop among the weeds. They fill the place with their idle chatter. In my low state, I can hear the quiet splashing in the central pond beside me, frogs and newts making their home in the shadow of a duckweed blanket.
The sun still pours in light into this heavenly place. I feel its warmth in my pale skin, through the folds of my once-white gown that is now grey with age. It dances off the forms of my sisters, both still standing tall on their plinths. Clementine resides beneath the spot where rainwater likes to gather on the roof. The regular, rhythmic dripping has worn smother her arm and left a growing depression in her wrest. Hyacinth, surrounded by her namesake, is all but hidden by floor-length veil of ivy.
When the sun sets and the moon takes up her place in the sky and fills the greenhouse with her pale blue light, the cooler air she brings is welcome. A blanket of moss protects me from the chill. It serves me well in the winter months when white becomes the dominant colour and snow drifts in waves across the floor. In those days, I do not hear a sound from the pond. The water freezes over. For a while, it seems Time itself has stopped.
My love comes when he can. I have learnt not to fear his absences, for I know however long they may be, he will always come. The first time he visited, his footsteps were quick and light, and he found joy in scampering around the room. Later, he was more reserved, more respectful of our home. He tried to fight back against the encroachment of the unwieldy foliage. The attempt did not last long, and eventually his visits turned to him lying on the ground beside me for hours, staring up at the same sky I saw, and describing it in ways I never could. Once, he lay so close that his arm brushed mine and I felt the human warmth of him. Had my stone heart been made to beat, it would have stumbled then. That was the one time he touched me.
Now it has been many suns since I last saw his blue eyes and bearded face. My ears prick up at the sound of approaching footsteps – not his. These are too light. The pitter patter is accompanied by the laughter of young girls. I still remember that sound from my own youth. I see them skip over me, their shadows dancing along behind and darkening my face. Slower footsteps approach, then two voices; one that of a woman, the other I recognise. My love has returned.
I wait to feel him beside me, but he does not come. Instead, strong hands slip under my figure and raise me from the ground. I see my plinth ahead and am set back upon it, turned to face the green space and the pond and the young family exploring my home. The two workmen who moved me now tend to my sisters. Hyacinth’s ivy veil is pulled back and I see her face for the first time in years. The roof above Clementine’s head is patched up. New glass is fitted into all the empty spaces.
Over a few short weeks, the greenhouse is returned to its former glory. My love and his family visit almost every day. When I see my home reborn, and him standing within it, I cannot distinguish my joy from my sorrow.