MY FATHER'S GARDEN
my father would go to a local beach to gather fossilized rocks which he carried home in his red Ford pickup truck. he became an unwilling artist, placing each rock strategically in its new place, trying to recreate the beginning of time. his well manicured and landscaped garden was infested with brightly colored flowers whose names I cannot pronounce and honey bees who stung you if you tried to pet them. my father's garden reminded me of death as the birds sang to each other and mocked my father by shitting on his new fossil rocks leaving a lasting impression of truth that only fashioned feelings of anger and making it seem entirely possible and warranted in many ways that most men could understand and learn from their weaknesses if encouraged. those rocks felt much sorrow and pain, their imaginations carved crudely through the ice, the snow and now covered in bird droppings leaving scars of determination which only grow larger with time. I felt like those rocks at various times in my life, grinding my way through the inevitable temptations of everyday living, disqualifying myself from the splendor of natures lesson, not thinking that Adam and Eve’s garden was my father's garden. my father was not a religious man--well, not knowingly--but we all have a little God in us, a little something inside our hearts that teaches us to love.
Darryl Salach
