A Matter of Unimportance

21. Flower

Gardening is an art form. With careful touches, support, and passion, it will all grow quickly. It's almost like magic. One second there isn't anything there and the next you have a practical felony in your spare bedroom.

The singular grow light would eventually need to be replaced with something bigger, but the room still looked like a jungle, or at the very least a thriving garden. It was enough to make my knees weak if I stared too long.

I was back in business for sure. Whaya had taught me well.

Unfortunately Whayas life was funded by a mix of disability funds, retirement and her hobby of growing plants on the side. I was in a bit more trouble than that because pot alone was not going to fund my life. Even though I'd found my way into a couple of small parties, I was not making enough money to keep the lights on, and I certainly wasn't making enough to feed myself or to get myself clothing, or to do any of the things needed for life.

I didn't want to use any of grandfather Benjamin's money. I staunchly had a certain pride about that, and I couldn't bring myself to break. I had to make it without him. Unfortunately "making it without him" tended to involve sitting on the floor reading while pretending my stomach didn't ache from hunger.

"Explain it to me," I stated into the phone.

I was at the waterfront again. Over the past several months I'd been frequenting to visit with my friend Penelope on Saturdays. She always gave me free pastries and I always offered her cheap conversation and somewhat meaningful advice on whatever man she was currently seeing. She rarely asked for details about my life, which I greatly appreciated. My stalker had started keeping better distance. He was still around, but I assumed the distance was meant so as not to alarm her. I liked to imagine he was lectured for that by God or whoever else cared about the continual surveillance of me and my mundane activities at the market. They had to be getting bored.

It was September now and that meant it was hot but not as ungodly hot as Summer had been. Sitting next to the water only did a small bit to cool things. After visiting with Penelope and getting my goody bag of free muffins, I'd walked down to the riverfront where the ground sloped away from the concrete walls. My feet were submerged, and I was trying to pretend the water was even remotely clean enough for such a visit.

"What part did you want me to explain?" My father requested.

"All of it," I replied. "How do you make things that people actually want?"

I hadn't spoken to my dad in almost a year. It wasn't out of malice. I wasn't ignoring him, and I had happily responded to at least two of his letters since I had returned from the reservation. It was just that we both knew there was a line between us, drawn solidly in the sand. We would always have that separation. He never called me either. I knew that service was limited and that almost everyone in his home relied on the single land line telephone, so I wasn't bothered by the lack of calls any more than I was bothered by the fact that we didn't talk. It was better that way. It was more natural for us to not pretend.

But he was a maker. He was an artisan. He knew how to survive off of what his hands could do, and he didn't need an employer to deem him worthy. He just set up a booth and sold things.

"It has less to do with trying to be what people want," he assured me. "It's about providing something that they didn't know they needed. Then, when they see it, they can't leave without it."

"How do I do that?" I asked.

"It depends what you want to make," he said, and I could practically hear him shrugging through the phone. In the background I heard yelling that had to be Scout and Tamara. "Or what you have to make things with. What do you need?"