The Greenhouse

The Greenhouse

by

The Tin Man

The garden was vast, walled in by stone so high it seemed to hold back the sky. Ivy clung to those walls, thick and tangled like my mind. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth, sweet flowers, and something I couldn't name. Bees and butterflies moved from bloom to bloom, absorbed in their own busy roles.

I walked with the old lady. Her lined face and white hair bore witness to years of tending to this oasis. She spoke softly, her blue-grey eyes sparkled as she talked, pointing out her successes and other places where work still needed doing. The greens were lush, and some overgrown, brushing against my legs—knee-high ferns, hip-high grasses, leaves that shimmered with dew or shook dismissively in a gentle breeze. This, I thought, is peace.

I glanced down at myself and was struck, but not upset or shocked, by the strangeness. The clothes weren’t mine. I was not in my body. The shirt hung differently, the shoes pinched. I was wearing someone else’s shape, but I was still me (somewhere beneath it all). Still Barry.

The path curved gently, the unevenly shaped stones worn smooth with time. Ahead rose a domed greenhouse, ornate, framed in white iron, longer than it was tall, except for the dome at its centre. It looked as though it, too, had sprung from the earth millennia ago. Standing like a temple to nature, each glass pane shimmered with condensation, catching the light and holding it within for the plants seeking sanctuary inside. As we approached, I saw a figure tending to the plants outside.

She was slight (maybe five foot two), with a slim build, wearing jeans and a baggy blue jumper. Bent slightly as she tended to a vine, her sleeves were rolled up, and her black, shoulder-length hair was tied back. I couldn’t see her face yet, but when she moved, she was instantly recognisable, everything about her was unmistakable.

I wasn’t myself (not in body), but I knew her, not from this place, not from this moment, but from somewhere else. Another life? Another world? Another me? I recognised her not with my eyes, but with my whole being (my heart, my soul). The flood of love that rose in me was tempered by that fact I was not me.

She stood up, and while the kind, soft-hearted old lady engaged her in conversation, her brown eyes looked into mine. I didn't say much—what could I?

We spoke (about the plants, the soil, the work). Her voice was calm, practical, kind. I tried to stay focused, but the borrowed body made me quiet. I didn’t know how to explain the feeling of being unrecognisable, so I kept my words clipped, my eyes low.

And beneath it all, the guilt pulsed. The way things had ended. The things I hadn’t said. The things I had. The silence that had stretched too long. I wanted to apologise, but the words felt too small, too late.

I turned to leave, heart heavy and reluctant to part again.

Then her hand caught my arm.

She looked at me, brown eyes steady, smiling and kind. She said, 'You didn’t really think I wouldn’t recognise you, did you?'

The greenhouse, the garden, the borrowed skin dissolved. The words, those smiling, warm (and yes, loving) eyes, drowned me. I was under her forgiveness, her warm soul gently seeing me, the real me, accepting me for the flawed mess I was (and still am), with a care that wrapped itself around me and said, 'I will cradle your soul in my heart forever.'

The way her hand rested on my arm. The way her voice held no trace of bitterness. Just recognition of the person beneath the physical. And in that moment, I knew.

I had never stopped loving her. And, truthfully, I probably never will.

I woke with the echo of her voice, her love, her acceptance and forgiveness in my chest. The day passed in a haze—everything seemed softer, warmer—but focus had left me. Days passed, then weeks, then years. Decades. I still remember. Maybe not the whole garden, maybe not all the path or flowers and bushes, but that feeling.

That feeling.

Was I shown heaven? 

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Bazza