Thyme
Prose Poetry — A short tale about compassion
One day I walked to the Garden. There were no shoes involved.
It was truly a Garden of the ages. There were greens, and blues, and colors I had never seen before. Sunflowers so tall they seemed to touch the sky. And grass that smiled between my toes.
Over the years, fences had been built. But that was a foolish mistake. Fences never lasted long in the Garden. And so the finished fences became unfinished, undone; I had learned 50 years ago.
I looked down. 6 feet below me my toes felt the soft embrace of dirt once again, at last, finally. The beautiful brown ground. I kneel in the ground, like I have done so many times before. Knelt. I am sorry. Time is now my friend.
But it had no friends. It was just a seed. Thyme. I felt it in my hand. So small, tiny. It had been with me the whole time, I knew. I walked over next to a giant bush of thyme, the largest of which I had ever seen. It would be good for Thyme to have a friend, I thought. And so I dug the hole. I dropped it in. I closed the hole. And all the while Time was watching. My old silly friend.
And so it grew. I grew. Slow at first. It was planted in winter. Harsh conditions for a seed, and it needed time to adapt. Thyme. I see it peeking just now, 50 years ago, on October the 24th, two-thousand and 8.
And I was born
And it was born. Sprouted, not born, I’m sorry. Plants need light to grow, as you know. It had all the light, and always needed more. We needed none, but Thyme gave me more than we ever knew existed in the world. We learned now. Just like I learned 50 years ago, that Thyme is such a silly thing.
And I was born. It’s weird being a baby. Being alive. Have you ever seen a tree? It was almost as green as…as…as…that, the. The Gar — -
I screamed at them, but they wouldn’t answer. I kicked. I cried. But I knew they couldn’t hear. I gave up after a while…
And I grew
And it grew. And Thyme grew. My seedling. It grew so fast, and so painfully slow. And over the seconds and days and months and weeks and hours and years I dug my feet deeper and deeper and deeper into the beautiful dark brown ground.
In the third grade I walked up to my friend, my first friend, the person I had known for years, 50 years, Sai Chander. His parents were dark brown. Indian.
And he was too.
And so Thyme bushed out. A little.
As I watched it grow I shrunk. Down and down into the beautiful brown ground. Night would come, but the light would not fade. Stars danced in the sky. Day would come, but the light would not fade. And so Thyme grew, and I looked down, only 4 feet now from the Earth.
As I lived, from elementary, to middle, to high; I lost myself. What does the ground look like? I no longer remember. Did I ever truly know?
Until I met her.
She helped me remember
I forgot about all other things. My life became its, watching it grow, Thyme. I had never seen a color like this before. That’s when the seconds started to go by. And then the weeks. And then the days. And then the months. And then the years. My feet were so deep in the ground now. Did I ever have feet? No. I was always here. Watching. Watching, watching, watching.
And I looked down, now only 4 inches from the beautiful dark brown ground.
Everything seemed so much brighter when I was with her. The world seemed to light up in a way it never did before. There were greens. And blues. And colors I never seemed to notice before; hues that only I could see. It all started to blur.
Vincent sat in his favorite and least favorite chair. I was watching. Watching, watching, watching. One stroke, and the canvas was red. Another, it was purple. And then another. Brown. The most beautiful Brown he had ever seen.
I was standing outside looking through the window. My feet above the beautiful dark brown ground. Watching, watching, watching.
And I grew old with her. And we grew old. I no longer remembered that my first day of high school was only three days ago. 50 years ago, I am sorry. She is friends with time.
She died. Three days ago. On the morrow. 50 years ago. But I am not sad. She reminded me. Time became my friend at last. Just like 50 years ago. In death she joined the ground.
The beautiful infinite dark brown ground.
And in the Garden I watched. Now looking straight up. Thyme looming over me. 60 feet tall. If only I could walk over. If only I could be there. But my job is to watch. Watching, watching, watching. Endless watching. It all started to blur.
My vision became a swirl of color. Greens, and blues, and colors I had never seen before. I could no longer see the sky. There was no more light. Only brown. Darker, and darker, and darker. And all the while Time was watching. Watching, and watching, and watching. My old silly friend.
And I was born
