He was just a man, and this was just a garden.
Until it wasn't.
The leaves on the trees, the petals on the flowers, and the dirt on the ground reminded him he was organic. A separation existed most days. The kind that can be dangerous and comfortable. And yet here he was, outside of himself for the first time in…how long had it been? He couldn't recall.
He knelt and touched the ground. Let the dirt filter through his fingers. The humming and buzzing of reality fell away. Listlessness faded as a spark of light flickered within his chest. It was unsettling for a moment. He felt unwelcome here. An alien in this world, invading and pillaging its beauty in the unique way only humans are capable of. And yet, as the deep purple hands of a Foxglove flower wrapped around his finger tips, he thought of the way his father once held his hand when he was a boy before crossing a road.
He was safe.
He belonged here in this garden—free to explore.
He stood and followed a tidy dirt trail along a row of evergreen hedges. He reached up and skimmed a hand along the top of its branches. He pictured his father doing the same to him when he was a boy. He always pretended to hate it. Sometimes they would play a game of hide and seek in clothing racks at the mall, the large circular ones you could step inside and just disappear. It felt like days before he was discovered, but his father always found him.
He climbed inside the hedges now, ignoring the sharp pokes on his face and arms. He pushed some more until the sprawl slowed his pace to a standstill. He looked up at the sky and let the thicket support him. He was weightless within their limbs. Rays of light broke through the surface, shimmering between prickly leaves. He smiled and took a deep breath in through his nostrils. It did not smell the way he expected, but it didn't matter. It was peaceful here, and safe.
A rustling sound shattered the silence. He froze, would his hideaway here inside this hedge, here inside this garden be discovered? He saw a long beak poke through the branches, then a tart top gradually morphed into a golden orange peel, cascaded down an azure back, and ended with emerald tailfeathers. The bird stared at him for a long moment before it broke gaze and floated away. It seemed the wind just up and plucked the creature. He felt sad, but grateful for the experience. Another trophy. Another memory.
He stepped out of the hedge and brushed his slacks. More for show than actual function. He didn't mind the dirt and the needles.
He followed the hedge row until it abruptly ended and gave way to a long line of Japanese maples.
He rested beneath one, let his back slide down its crimson trunk. He felt the sunlight gently warm his face. If this was heaven, he was glad to be dead.
A hazy memory gradually worked its way to the surface of his mind. As a boy, he wandered his father's gardens until he found himself standing beside an old oak, ancient and hunched. He pressed a hand against its bark, felt the knobby surface on his skin. The rough edges slowly smoothened. His hand gently tingled. He felt a pulsating heartbeat, followed by a sigh as the wind caressed its branches.
"I'm here," he whispered.
He waited for the old oak to reply, but it did not.
He dropped his hand, disappointed.
He was just a boy, and it was just a tree.
Now as a man, beneath this maple, a thought occurred to him. It didn't work then, but maybe, just maybe…
He fluttered his eyes, let them grow heavy until they gave way to gravity and darkness. He quieted his mind, placed a hand on the maple's trunk. He waited for the vibration to begin. Minutes passed. He felt nothing, but he waited still.
The words slowly came together, rose from deep within his throat, and dripped from his mouth. He could not stop them, even if he wanted:
"I'm here."
"I'm here," replied a soft voice.
He fell back from the tree, startled. It spoke to him! But, how? How could a tree speak? It made sense as a boy, but not now as a man.
He stared at the tree. Took in each leaf and every surface of its ruddy trunk.
"Go ahead", he dared it. "Speak again."
Another memory flooded his thoughts.
He was sitting beside a bed. It was dark and cold and quiet.
"I'm here," he whispered as he held his father's hand.
There was no reply.
Now in the garden, he had enough of the trees, and the voices, and the memories.
He stood and noticed the sunlight formed a luminous, circular-shaped patch of grass in a meadow across a stream. He waded through the cool water and stepped inside it.
"Beam me up," he said mockingly.
A sweet sea of pink carnations surrounded him.
His body hovered, weightless, but he wasn't scared.
He glided over a row of flowering plums.
He followed trumpet-shaped hibiscus flowers as they flowed down a hill and joined a field of sapphire starbursts.
Electric purple Siberian irises stood in solemn solidarity.
There were endless rows of fuchsia shrubs and golden marigolds.
Over there were daffodils, and next to those waxy leafed begonias.
Sunflowers towered over him.
My god, the beauty of it all. He didn't know their names, but he could read.
His body felt heavy.
He touched down beside a cluster of blooming scarlet roses. He waved his hand through them, swirling their petals into a pool of sparkling ruby pixels.
But the color soon drained away, leaving only blackness all around.
Damn, he forgot to charge it again. He slipped the headset off and dropped it beside a flickering armrest.
He was just a man, and this was just another reality.