Farther

This, engraved on a bench in the Alaska Botanical Gardens: “One is nearer God’s heart in a garden than anywhere else on Earth.” I’m no longer religious but these words feel true. Hands in soil, I steady, closer to root, more able to handle what life heaves my way. Had I lost my brother in June, I’d have gone to the garden and pulled weeds when anger rose, anger at his killer, anger at absent gun laws, anger at the meth that addled the killer’s brain, anger that my gorgeous little brother would never grow old, never be a grandfather, never speak my name again. I could’ve gone to the garden, dug and pulled, yanked out the rampant nettles and then, calmed from exertion, fallen to my knees and planted fragrant white roses. But he was shot in January. It was dark. All was frozen. My garden waited under four feet of snow, a faint but steady pulse. I hung a punching bag in the garage. Bought bright pink boxing gloves to hide the bloody knuckles.