“Wait,” said Erin. “I want to say a poem first.”
Jana belched, and Paulette shoved her.
“Shut up,” said Erin. “It’s Eliot.”
“Oh, well, then,” said Paulette.
Erin coughed and began to recite.
“I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought.”
There was a soft, jumbled silence. Jana contemplatively sniffed.
“Shit,” said Erin. “There’s something more about a garden, but I can’t remember.”
“Isn’t Eliot that turd who made his wife think she was crazy?” asked Paulette.
“Yeah, I think so,” said Erin. “But it’s still a great poem. Anyway, come on.”
We went among the sleeping plants. The ladybugs tumbled from our bags and tooled about on petal and leaf with all their diligent legs. My friends giggled and joked. I dropped two ladybugs on the soft flesh of a petunia; it bobbed gently as the tiny creatures alighted. I thought how vast and deeply textured the surface of the flower must be to them, how huge and abstract the garden. My imagination opened in one small deep spot. For a moment I felt I was in a limbo of shadows and half-formed shapes which would dissolve into nothingness if I touched them. I felt loneliness so strong it scared me. Then Jana laughed and Erin brushed by me, thoughtlessly caressing my spine with one hand. I was in a garden with my friends. I could not fully see what lay about me, but still, I knew it was there, abundant, breathing, and calm.