The Man Who Gave Me a Garden – March 2007

In between the VP of Finance and the Engineer, woven opposite of the Audio Thief, there was the English Teacher.

I met him at a time in my life when I was unsure of my status as an animated being. He convinced me that a glass of water in a public place was no risk and did not constitute a commitment. Being in shock as I was from having woken up from yet another life threatening surgery, the proposition left me without a retort. How could I argue? And so it began.

I placed all these silly boundaries and restrictions upon him.

Me: You can come to my house for coffee, but I won't have sex with you.
Him: But we can make out a little, right?
Me: Oh, of course.

I told myself the boundaries were important because he was so overwhelming. He stood 6' 4" and was broad shouldered. He was the first man in many years who towered over me, and made me feel petite and vulnerable.

It was not long before we fell into a weekend routine of all night sex and fabulously long leisurely breakfasts on the front porch together. I relate cooking and eating to sex – after all, they do hit the same erogenous zones and have historically been linked. I figured the cooking on "the morning after" was simply an extension of the previous night's glorious adventures in pleasure.

He taught me the secret to making strong bold "starbucks" coffee at home. He showed me how a small amount of chopped bacon could transform boring scrambled eggs into a gourmet meal. He educated me in the divinity of seasoned salt. I think I was most surprised by the biscuits.

One morning he declared that he was done with toast. Go take a shower, he commanded, the biscuits need to rise. When I came out, freshly washed and smelling less like sex and more like a girl, there were six freshly baked biscuits on the counter. I can't remember now if my shock was for the actual appearance of home made baked goods in my domicile, or the unholy mess he had made of my kitchen in the process of baking said biscuits.

It was a time in my life when I had no money and lived on a meager allowance at the fringes of the San Pedro ghetto district. We watched TV together, and attended matinees. We went for walks in the park. We drove around the beach city at night with the top down. The spring air and the scent of night blooming jasmine intoxicating us. More often than not we ended up on a deserted side street, alone under the oaks trees, lips locked, arms wrapped and the smell of jasmine wafting around us. The usual passionate kisses inevitably turned steamy as our hands were all over each other. Reaching under and up and down and around, touching and caressing each other.

Our birthdays were very close together. I bought him a heavy zippo lighter. It was a smokey brass large men's lighter engraved with his initials on one side and a favorite line from the poem "Variations" by Frederico Garcia Lorca… "under a thicket of kisses".

The still waters of the air
under the bough of the echo.

The still waters of the water
under a frond of stars.

The still waters of your mouth
under a thicket of kisses.

Two weeks later, for my birthday, he gave me a garden. He had arranged a tour of the Huntington Gardens in Pasadena on the day of my birthday. It just so happened to be the birthday of Jane Goodall, being celebrated at the Gardens. There were "Happy Birthday" banners and balloons all over the Library grounds.

That night we made passionate love in his loft apartment, with the scent of night blooming jasmine floating in through the open windows.

One evening after he had put on a particularly chivalrous display of manliness, we ended up in our usual spot against the tile of my oversized shower. Under the waterfall of the shower head, I accidentally told him that I loved him. I meant it in the endearing, "Oh I just love lemon meringue pie". I understand the mistake, we were naked, in the shower. Behind all that steam a person can become quite misled.

We went along at a frantic pace, having passionate sex, eating fabulous food and lounging in each other's arms on warm spring mornings. It was only a matter of time before the accidental declaration in the shower became a hardened reality.

He gave me a garden and I fell in love with him.

After the passion faded, I was left with his friendship. I moved into the apartment next to his when it became available. I wanted to be in the one place I had truly fell and felt in love. I wanted to be reminded of the late morning love making, with music and strong coffee. It was no longer about the English Teacher, it was about reclaiming that feeling of being in love.

After many long lonely years of not knowing what love felt like, of not having any idea of love, I had finally found my way back to the emotion that had abandoned me.

It was not about love, it was the idea of love.   It was about the idea of the Garden.