full moon in Scorpio

The Garden of Gods

I.

interdimensional Russian nesting dolls of mother-daughter bonding 

or 

my grandmother watched, as we sifted through her world 

categorizing her into what we would keep

and pass along, hoping that someone could find beauty 

in the parts we couldn’t understand 

the parts we couldn’t appreciate. 

my mother got lost, combing through the fastidious records in the study

my sister got lost in the kitchen, deciphering its measured indulgence

I lost myself, absorbing the secret treasures of the closet.

when we needed to find each other, in the mess we had made of all that she was

we drove 

a left, out of the small gated community of coordinating adobe houses

down a street that felt as wide and open as the cloudless March sky

I could almost hear her perfectly manicured nails tapping on the steering wheel 

we drove

into an expanse of tall grass

dappled with majestic red and white rock formations  

strategically arranged by the Gods.

II. 

Sundays were different because six days a week, breakfast was cottage cheese or plain yogurt and fruit, but on Sundays our tea was accompanied by scones. freshly baked.   

I knew She was Catholic and I knew we weren’t.

I knew this was important.

She came to visit every year, for Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas

on her way home from places I had to look up in the atlas, bringing gifts for me and my sister—always exactly the same, but different. 

while She was around, the oven would birth never-ending trays of torta, a floral perfume would grace the air, and the crinkly wrappers from hard caramel candies, would get tucked behind the radiator cover and between the cushions in furniture, as they slipped out of her luggage and into my mouth. 

She went to church

a small one in our neighborhood in Queens.

on Sundays we woke up early, before everyone else in the house

we made tea and gathered breakfast

then, we sat in the backroom, her makeup pouch unfolded on the table and I would watch her while She got ready. 

if I was good, I would get a little lipstick too. because this was an occasion. 

I didn’t go with her often, but when I did, I hated it. 

there were so many rules to follow and strange adults to talk to

the building was cold and the bench was uncomfortable. 

everyone seemed to be following a sixth sense I didn’t have

but had to pretend I did.

when I was 12, I started telling people I didn’t believe in God 

I didn’t say this to her. 

as her trips to New York became less frequent, less reliable, our Sundays relocated to Colorado. I would sit on the floor in her closet as she got dressed

She would let me make her late

I leveled up from a red lip to a full outfit, accessorized with serious intention and a touch of humor. 

I would sit on the floor in her closet as she got dressed 

more and more slowly each visit. 

I tended to the altar of her magnifying makeup mirror

lit candles and prayed beneath the cascade of leather handbags 

sang hymns to silk scarves that brought my skin to life as I met them  

or 

her closet was a portal to all of the places and experiences that dressed her up in the 

permanent elegance and an unmistakable competence I longed for

She taught me the word meticulous.

God was freshly brewed with milk and two spoons of sugar

God was a glamorous secret shared between ladies

God was ritualized quality time.

III.

we always flew from New York to Denver and drove down to the Springs, 

almost always at dawn.

I watched for deer lazily, with the knowledge that her hawk eyes could spot 

anything that might threaten our journey.

we never fit in there

Colorado was rugged, dirty, and full of denim

time was slow 

tumbleweed was real

megachurches, even more so. 

my sister and I weren’t the right kind of brown

somehow, She was even the wrong kind of white? no. but different enough to stand out. 

I didn’t recognize the words they called us

my grandma called us future people

but She said ‘mixed’ was just hard to pronounce.

my grandmother lived in an open concept ranch-style house, full of invisible structural beams: 

everything needed to be, “just so.” games needed to be quiet and little girls needed to be neat. there were couches we didn't sit on, dishes we couldn't eat off of, scrunched up faces on the news yelling about money, and glass cases full of teeny trinkets that glistened when the sun hit them

but She saw the expectations holding it all together 

She said they, “sucked all of the oxygen out of the room,”

so we would escape when the air became too tight.

they called it a garden 

but at first glance, I was sure it was a jungle-gym. a playground for the earthly dolls of a celestial dollhouse. 

first, She introduced me to Jupiter, who whisked me around, forever expanding a living adventure course beneath my small feet; we ran under arches and hiked until my white sneakers became unrecognizable, encrusted with reddish-brown dust. 

then, She introduced me to Venus, who lifted the veil and slowed me down long enough to open my eyes; the colors were different, warmer; the giants were flecked with copper, divided into delicate layers, finding balance and rhythm in the negative space between them; if I looked closely I could see the fine lines around the acrylic paint strokes blending together into the sunset above, beyond. 

finally, She graduated me into the ecstasy of Neptune’s fantastical third eye. planned to perfection. 

the Gods took their time with this spot.

I was accustomed to looking for her strength in 

dexterous movements, 18 hour days, tenacious fights against the slightest injustice, 

infectious optimism, and meals pulled out of thin air

or 

I witnessed transcendence as She was exalted by the mountain air, a sky devoid of buildings, and the

 juxtaposition of where we were, and where we would soon be returning for dinner.

God was translation

God was huge and sunkissed and unimaginably precise

God was so much fun.

IV.

taking pictures always felt pointless, they didn’t capture what I loved about the garden.

maybe you cannot reproduce magic. maybe I couldn’t.

but this time, we wouldn’t have a reason to return,

so I even took one looking back at the welcome sign, ushering us out with a lie. 

that day, we drove through the garden, but the gods were gone.

I crawled back into her closet, melted and stuck myself into the carpet like gum

and there I stayed

even when my body returned home, to New York, and then mourned the passing of spring break with my friends a few days later, in Connecticut.

her death was mine, so I didn’t tell anyone. 

suddenly, it was 4am and it was April and I couldn’t be still for another instant.

I couldn’t fall asleep because everything in me danced incessantly, with a lightness that mocked me. no. 

the wind was howling through the closed windows to shake me from the inside out. no.

it was a frost sprouting from my blood and pumping through my body. yeah. 

I put on three sweatshirts and packed my little blue glass pipe over and over and over.

I begged the clouds of smoke to carry me out to space. 

my heart began beating faster and more forcefully, waging its escape from my traitorous chest and drowning out FKA Twigs who I had saddled with the responsibility of easing me down. obsessively sucking up the icy, phantom stream of postnasal drip; I boiled water. 

shaking, I finished brewing my chamomile tea and set it on the floor, then 

I dropped to my knees 

the air became too tight so I once again reached for the garden 

sitting on the rug with my knees pulled into my chest, I drove through, one photo at a time. finally turning back to look at the welcome sign once more. 

I let the tea burn through the frost as it slid through my body with a revelation: 

I had chosen to make it possessive. 

The Garden of the Gods:

the garden that the gods created, one belonging to them

or 

a garden composed of Gods, who have been playing along, the whole time.