The Feud

The garden was built at the perfect angle of East and West. The sun rising over the roses and setting on the lemon trees, soaking them in all the last remaining sunshine.

I don’t know much about how it was built or when, but today is hot as I close the large wooden gate behind me.

Last October, we were concerned it wasn’t going to survive because it was unseasonably cold.

But it did.

And it came back stronger, my sister said.

None of that really matters, though, because it hasn’t rained in over a week. I walk back with the watering can now empty and face another day.

Ten years ago, we snuck out to that same garden right as the moon was full. Like a flashlight in the black sky.

We sat in the enclosed square, large enough to lose someone in if you walked to one corner, but not an acre or anything.

No one knew we were there.

Only the cicadas, loud in our ears, their noise floating into the air like something effervescent. Hiding our voices slightly.

He was standing on enemy territory according to his parents. And, well, my parents too. Let’s just say many generations ago there was a fight that decided whose land was whose. It’s all history, but in this case, things never really disappear.

“I think I’m going to be a teacher.”

“Don’t do that,” he says.

“Why not? What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to be a pilot.”

“A pilot? So you can fly away from me? And from all of this?”

“No, not like that. I’ll bring you with me. We can go together.”

“It won’t work. I need to be grounded anyway.”

“We need to figure out a way,” he says.

I thought about moving a lot after I became a teacher.

The night he officially left, it hailed, and the pieces were as big as golf balls.

They fell into the garden, damaging some of the plants. And I wondered what was going to happen after the storm was over.

We didn’t say much else after that. Just sat there looking out at the garden we used to hide in.

Not anymore.

We were adults now, just visiting again.

“We can’t make it work,” I finally said.

“That’s the problem. It shouldn’t be work.”

It felt like the conversation wasn’t going anywhere, and it ended there. We left the garden for good that night.

Eventually, I moved to New York. I moved first, with a roommate who owned an art gallery, and I didn’t want to look back.

But he moved too.

And I didn’t know until the doors of the subway opened and there he was, standing in front of me with a small smile.

I tried to keep my mouth closed.

He walked on, and, well, I had to walk off because it was my stop.

“So, where are you going?” he asks.

“Upper West Side,” I tell him.

He steps off too, setting the door alarms off.

“We’re going together,” he says.

We walk toward Central Park.

“You could lighten up a little bit,” he says.

“You could dig a little deeper sometimes,” I tell him.

Our parents never liked us dating. And of course, our families had fought for years. So when we came along, it was hard to stop it.

“You always said we would end up running into each other years later. And it would be at the most random time,” I tell him.

“Have you seen the garden recently?”

It was the small piece of land that we once shared. It wasn’t just that land. There was more than that. But the garden had always been part of the argument.

You would think our properties would be close together if we shared a garden, but they weren’t. They were miles apart. Sometimes he biked over, and there were times when we ran just to meet each other.

Living in the country was no joke.

And now living in a five-hundred-square-foot apartment seems so big.

So empty.

“I haven’t seen it,” he finally says. “I know there are enough lemons now to sell to the grocery stores.”

The thought of that is amazing. Our last summer together, we couldn’t believe we picked twenty-two lemons. It was the most of any year.

“Twenty-two.”

“What?”

“The last summer we were there. We picked twenty-two lemons.”

I look at him. “You remember that?”

“Of course I remember.”

Why New York? How different it is here.

We will never forget where we came from. There is something different about being away from home.

In 1892, that’s when our ancestors first met.

They were friends at first. They got along well. They farmed and grew several crops. They did very well and lived well.

Until one year when his family wasn’t able to grow anything.

Their land was not far away from ours. They were so close. Close enough to see what was happening. And every day, it got worse.

The day finally came when my family had to help.

And they decided the only way was to take the land.

Take ownership of it.

But that didn’t go well.

With nowhere else to go, our crops started disappearing, and there was no catching whoever was doing it.

A truce was never reached.

That was the story I was always told, but he heard a different one.

One he didn’t want to accept.

He said the story was different every year, so eventually he stopped asking.

But it didn’t stop us from continuing what our families thought should have ended generations ago.

I crack the window in my apartment and step out onto the fire escape.

It’s cool here.

Not as hot as it was on the farm, and honestly, that is one of the best parts.

I miss the garden, but I just go to the park.

One thing is for sure: I haven’t gone on any dates.

Maybe I never will.

He may have mentioned that he hasn’t either.

That he is better off just flying and not being on the ground.