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Weekly Contest #35
It’s been a month since the funeral, and Marisol’s garden is in the most primitive form of existence possible. Swallowed by the North Texas dust, the jumble of leaves and stems are coated in gray shades of dissipation and loss. Vines creep over planter boxes like slimy snakes; dried stems stick out like pins and brush your leg when you walk by. The topsoil is pressed down hard, unforgiving to touch, like last Christmas’s fruitcake hiding in the pantry. The garden wastes away, and I hate to think of what Marisol would say if she saw the disas...
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