Morbidly Yours

by Ivy Fairbanks

From behind the curtains, I peered into my neighbor’s yard with newfound curiosity. My living room window opened right into the rose garden behind Willow Haven. Lush red blossoms rested in precisely manicured bushes thick with thorns. Callum went about their maintenance, pruning and adding mulch. Suspenders crossed his wide shoulders and fitted trousers stopped just before his ankles, giving him a look somewhere between debonair and antiquated. Some people want to be scattered under rose bushes or oak trees and the question flickered across the marquee of my mind: was it a garden nourished by ash? Regardless, the notion of my neighbor tending his flowers was more comforting than how I imagined he spent the rest of his workdays.