Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

to the garden that still has not bloomed.
Staring out at the expanse of soil, I sigh, unsure of what exactly to say.
“All the gardening blogs suggest talking to your plants. That, even though
there’s no actual science to back that data up, they swear it makes a
difference. So, here I am. Temporarily. We’re about to go to Boston for a bit,
but when I come back, I expect a fully flourishing garden, okay?”
If Mamá could see me now. She’d probably accuse me of witchcraft and
burn me at the stake.
“I get it,” I tell them, hoping the bulbs can hear beneath the dirt. “You’re
afraid of what waits for you on the other side of the soil. You’re warm and
comfortable where you are now. Safe, even. It’s terrifying, trying to find
courage to take a leap of faith, but you can’t spend eternity hiding.
Eventually, you have to take the opportunities that are thrust upon you, and
trust that the universe knows what it’s doing.”
Hope bursts like a backed-up pipe in my chest, but I stuff it back down
where it belongs, not wanting to entertain that thought.
“April is the cruelest month,” I add, quoting The Waste Land, like the
flowers might appreciate the sentiment. “Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain. It’s time.”
When I turn around, I see Kal hovering by the back gate, watching me
with an unreadable expression. I approach him slowly, shame heavy in my
chest.
“Is your garden a big T. S. Eliot fan?” he asks, his face shifting into one
of quiet amusement.
“Don’t laugh,” I say, glancing up at the sky, noting the thick clouds
rolling in over the ocean. “Love is the greatest act of revitalization, and I
happen to think poetry is the best way to relay that.”
He doesn’t say anything as I move around him, leading the way to the
front of the house where our car sits, Marcelline already in the front
passenger seat.
It’s raining when we take off, which doesn’t really do much to quash my
nerves as soon as we board Kal’s jet. Once we’re able to get up and move
around, I unbuckle myself from my seat and go to the bedroom, climbing
under the luxurious covers, trying not to let Marcelline’s words from earlier
take root in my soul.
“She doesn’t know me,” I whisper to myself and the pillow. “She doesn’t
get to decide if I’m falling in love.” I pause, considering. At what point does