The sound I never heard

Shattered slate steps, to the enclosed brick. A molding chair stinking of rusted gas tanks, sun kissed urine, decayed feces, curved brick. A garden once, blemished in dead stems, slugs, flies and mosquitoes, heaven.

The decayed barrel laughs, try as I may, nothing would dare sprout forth.

Rain, rain, rain.

An eternity of dampness and a second of life. Drowned, bloated, devoured. Bright egg shell packets, dyes that remain in the soil.

Marigolds.

Children spat upon the dirt, slopped over with mounds of rotten earth. Hope. Greenery that defies, life that bursts.

Rain, rain, rain.

Upon the weak limbs, the dying and the dead, no souls cling but the flies.

One year ago

It was good work, the flowers from before wretched and tossed, I wanted to start anew, I wanted it to be my garden. Yes it is cruel, to pluck a life away for aesthetics. Too dark and grisly, flushed and lively, the dull setting sun, the coral of an evening sea. Petals that speak to much of a want to be seen. Hands unknown, strangle stems. Dangling feet, a mandragoras deafening cry. The plants are thrown into the barrel, trapped between the red stone of the garden and cement steps leading to a door. Beyond, the overgrown alleyway, shattered wood and composite bins. A dividing fence, bleached and battered via the wills of nature.

The dust is swept, the pollen flushed out. A stump protrudes, slim stems of a decapitated being. I am alive, I want to live.

The hand ax plunges into the great root, hacking away the flesh of plant bile. Priority is to the tulip bulbs, wonderful lavenders and hues of red daffodils dancing amongst a sherbert glory. The wait will be long, a winter fierce, but devotion strong.

- Many years ago

Garret Moss was a lanky, thick lisped man from Alabama, stationed at the army base on the border of Georgia and South Carolina. A sailor who had deployed and acquired several warfare pins, he was a mild herald of success, holding the position of the infamous second class petty officer. Possibilities of a grand future, a competition between friends, Bridgette Carhorn, a third class petty officer.

Who will be a Warrant officer first? The boy with cigar burns, or the girl with a race track down her wrists?

Hope. All I can do is give them hope, provide them with what care and support feels right. Caring for someone else, the warmth of being needed. Back then, no one was a burden, all of us united. Words are hollow, and actions reveal ourselves.

I got you, I’ll be there for you, call me if you need anything.

Don’t call me, leave me alone till the time I need to socialize comes forth, you're a nuisance.

I still begrudgingly have and would support them.

You see, alcohol is the escape. It’s the moment you are no longer in uniform, but vaguely someone else, layers melting, code and restriction teetering upon a balance. The slightest glimmer of freedom, of recognition, that we are more than digital camo and white dress clothes.

- Last Spring

Success.

Tulips of charcoal and amber, a cascading bouquet ignited in flame, the sweetest kiss, a peck on the cheek from the daffodils sunlight brilliance. Kitchen scissors pay a visit, clean and delicious. Decapitation, beauty tumbling to the ready.

My success. My pleasure. My desire.

At the stems, crystalline fluides bubble to the top. A pearl of life, bleeding in agony.

- Summer

The Marigolds have been scattered, probably too late, but the faintest strength penetrates the soil. I’m grateful for the time I have with the flower bed, the wondrous rise of an unknown life, one that fights the roar of nature.

I got you, I’ll be there for you, call me if you need anything.

- Summer many years ago

Garret, formerly 2nd Class Petty Officer Moss, is being sent to the brig. Driving from his home after a few drinks, he accidentally collided with a woman in the service on her motorcycle. The news, as always, is a shock. I had lost count of my fellow comrades consumed by the need of alcohol.

The desire to live a sliver of freedom.

To be once who they were before the oath.

The outcome rarely changes.

You could have called me! I would have been there! I got you!

Running from the book store, his favorite aisle smashing sand to my eyes. In the car I cry, my powerlessness, my regret, my will, my friendship. So many lives shattered day after day.

I just wanted someone to hold.

The service will never love us. It only betrays our wills and supports our worst selves.

I just wanted someone to hold me.

All he ever wanted was someone to love him, something to mend the traumas.

To live.

Neither Garret Moss or Bridgette Carhorn would continue to succeed, the service ending for one in the brig with a dishonorable discharge, and the other to an honorable, but now a single parent, forced out and with two children. What guarantee of safety was ever provided to them, or me or any of us?

Back then, we had our leadership to count on.

Back then, you could only rely on your lower ranked comrades.

Back then, a small group of folks were your only support.

Back then, the only one who could help you was yourself.

Back then, nothing protected you.

Back then, you were nothing.

Back then, I was nothing.

Back then, your end of service date was your only companion.

Back then, all of us would wonder, why would anyone take the oath.

Now

The Marigolds are dead, not one made it to flowering. Eaten alive by the humid air, slime drenched slugs and greedy ants. Upon the ravaged skeletons, flies. On every surface the caracas of dozens of flies, cemented to the dead. Nothing but the fungus filled husks remain, dragging down the decrepit leaves.

The rain has gone on for days, I haven’t been able to maintain the garden, the time I once held in such charm is a burden.

I got you, I’ll be there for you, call me if you need anything.

I’m sorry.

My friend.

Silence.