The Pencil Box

It was a horrible week for Americans, especially Bostonians and Texans and anyone who wishes we weren’t giving out guns like party favors. I can only assume the Republic of Chechnya has had better weeks, too. Though maybe not so many, because it seems Chechens have been subjected to one violation of human rights after another for centuries.

The day before the Boston Marathon bombing I saw something that in the moment I thought was pedestrian. It was only later that I realized how significant it was that it felt so prosaic. All this horrible week I’ve replayed the incident in my mind, and I’ve been glad to have it.

I came around a midtown corner in the morning. It was early. So early I still remembered what I’d dreamt in the night. The nearest building was one of those nondescript newspaper gray apartment towers that looks like a soul-sucking office complex but is actually home to hundreds. One of those hundreds had just come out — an old man with a walker. The doorman stood at the curb holding a broom. The old man and the doorman were sharing a laugh. Just beyond them was the next building, a fire house with a group of firefighters standing in front of it. They were drinking coffee from ceramic mugs and talking quietly.

It was just a moment. The doorman was a color. The old man was another. The firefighters were each their own shade. Every one had his own story. But it didn’t matter how or why they all ended up here in this country in this city on this street on this morning. They just did, and now we’re together.

(Photo of one of my favorite novels via here)

Last week I wrote how much I love our tiny apartment. And it’s true. I do. But there is one thing I miss: a backyard. Or even just a porch big enough for a swing bench and some potted plants. I wish the sense of privacy and coziness I feel in our apartment extended outside. Just a bit. A little land and sunshine and even rain I’d never have to share with anyone.

As it is, going outside means facing the world. It means putting on shoes. Remembering my keys. Looking both ways. I just want to walk barefoot from my apartment to the outdoors without breaking the solitude. Without any production or preparation.

Eventually, I’ll have that.

In the meantime, I’ve found a compromise. Or, rather, Ben found me a compromise. He volunteered me to water the flowerbeds outside our building. Not that he told me this. A neighbor mentioned it when I ran into her in our lobby. I believe her exact words were, “Ben says you’d love to water the flowerbeds and are available all summer!”

This is not something I would have volunteered for. I was not sitting around thinking, “If only I had another obligation!” But, now, thanks to Ben, I didn’t feel like I could say no.

So, I started watering the flowerbeds. And Ben was right; I do love it. I love collecting the big green watering can and the faucet key from behind our building. I love the sound of the water as it pours out of the spout. I love when I fill the can a bit too high and cool water splashes over my flip flops and bare toes. I love the smell of wet earth and the way the flower petals and leaves sparkle with water droplets. I love the rhythm — back and forth between the spout and the four flowerbeds, each bed getting three full cans of water.

I also love that every time I water, strangers talk to me. Sometimes they thank me. Sometimes they want to know why I do it. Sometimes they want directions. Sometimes they’re drunk. But, always, I love it. And I wouldn’t get any of that with some fancy private backyard.

(Photo via Garden Tyrant)