The Garden on Eden St.

“A book must be the ax for the frozen sea within us.”
~Franz Kafka


“Where we going, Dad?”

“Someplace better, son.” Warren could tell there was truth in his father’s words and there was. His father really believed that where they were going was someplace better. Having lived in the same apartment on the same block of the same city for all of his seven years, Warren was anxious about moving to a house in the suburbs. Who would their neighbors be? What about his friends? Where would he go trick-or-treating? He did his best to weigh everything comfortable and familiar against all the uncertainty; what he knew against what he might learn.

The night before moving-day, as he lay in bed pretending to be asleep, Warren overheard his parents. “Baby, I’m scared. Are you sure we can afford this?”

“It’s settled. We’ve saved every dime for the last eight years. This is our chance. This is our dream. Not just owning our own home, but moving out of the city, too. Giving Warren opportunities we never had.” All the mystery and hidden meaning of his mother’s fear and father’s hope swirled in dizzying patterns through Warren’s head. It was a lot for a seven-year-old to figure out on his own. Thank you Lord for grownups, Warren prayed, and for the cool side of the pillow. That night he dreamt of someplace better.

A couple months later, they were just about finished moving in. There were only a few boxes left to unpack, so Warren’s mother made a welcomed suggestion, “Warren, why don’t you go outside and make some friends? You’ve been so helpful unpacking. Momma can put the rest of these things away by herself.” She didn’t have to tell him twice. Warren was out the door and down the street before his mother turned around to see if he had heard her.

Warren had never seen so much grass all in one place. His family, and every family on his street, had big, green lawns. Warren’s dad was going to teach him to use a mower and maybe he could earn a little money helping out with the neighbors’ yards. Some homes had sprinklers tik-tik-tiking away in front of them, with rainbows floating in the fine, cool spray. Warren dashed past them, not wanting to get wet, not wanting to stay dry.

He soon reached the end of the street, and it was there that Warren discovered the garden. His new neighborhood didn’t have a playground, which worried him at first. Where was the chalked-up blacktop, shimmering in the late summer heat? Where were the swing sets and the tennis court with no net where they played kickball? No, what Warren found himself looking out over was something different. Something better.

As he climbed over the guardrail and entered the garden, Warren gasped at the glory of it all. There were trees of all kinds, shapes and sizes; blossoms sweetly fragrant and bitterly sharp. The sunlight fell in a patchwork quilt of colors over everything. A gentle breeze stirred the willows that leaned in over a stream. Its water was clear and bright and there was laughter in its voice. Birds sang from every corner of the garden. Butterflies and dragonflies danced and darted from branch to flower and back again. Warren lost all track of time; too busy climbing trees, hop-scotching along stones in the stream and chasing bugs to worry about such a thing as time. He had all the time in the world. And, there were worlds within worlds for Warren in every leaf, petal and rock on the other side of the guardrail.

That night at dinner Warren could not stop talking about his discovery. “Will you slow down for a minute and eat your dinner?”

“But, Dad, you’ve got to see it. There’s trees and grass and birds and flowers. It’s even got a creek running through it!”

“You stay out of that creek.”

“Mom.”

“I mean it. And, don’t go climbing up in those trees. The last thing I need is for you to mess around and break your leg.”

“But, Mom.”

“You mind your mother now. You hear? She just wants you to be careful.” Warren nodded to show that he understood, but he really did not. How can they not be excited? Was he explaining it well enough? Maybe they would just have to see it for themselves. He finished his dinner quietly and started upstairs to get ready for bed.

“You going to bed?” asked his father.

“Yeah. I'm tired.”

“Sleep well.”

“Come give Momma a kiss.” Warren complied. “I’ll come up in a little bit and make sure you’re all tucked in. G’night.”

“G’night.”

The next morning Warren was up bright and early, before his father left for work. His parents were in the kitchen having breakfast. His father put the paper down and asked, “Well, good morning early bird. What’s got you up so early?”

“I’m gonna go play.”

“You’re gonna sit your butt down and have some breakfast first.” His mother got up and fixed him a plate. They finished breakfast together. Warren’s father kissed his mother on the cheek and patted him on the head on the way out. “Here, let me take those. You go on back upstairs and get ready.”

“Thanks Momma.” As he dressed, Warren wondered whether or not there were other kids in the neighborhood. If there were, did they know about the garden? Yesterday had been fun, but he hoped that today he would have someone to play with. He kissed his mother at the door and ran down the street as fast as his little legs would carry him.

He played for hours becoming a king, a pirate, an explorer, a wild thing. His imagination and enthusiasm were inexhaustible.

“Can I play?” Warren nearly jumped out of his skin. He whirled around and standing there was another little boy. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Warren. What’s yours?”

“Chris. What are you playing?”

“I’ve been shipwrecked and marooned here on this island. I was just gathering some coconuts. You want to help me?”

“Sure.” They scrambled up a nearby peach tree together, shaking coconuts from its branches. They then climbed down and made a pile. “Let’s have a war,” suggested Chris.

“Okay.”

They took up positions, one on either side of the stream. Each took as many peaches as he could carry. Warren piled them up behind a willow tree. Chris ducked down behind a knoll. When Warren peeked out from behind his fort Chris fired first. Smack! It crashed against the side of the tree spraying bits of peach into Warren’s face. He wiped his eyes and ran quickly to another tree, closer to the stream, while Chris reloaded. He had two peaches with him. Stepping out from his hiding place, Warren side-stepped Chris’ shot and threw a peach high over his head. Chris only looked up for a second, but Warren threw the second peach and struck him squarely in the face. Chris fell to the ground. The first peach came crashing harmlessly down beside him.

“Chris!” There was no answer. “Chris! Are you OK?” Warren leapt over the stream and ran to his side. “Chris, are you --,” Chris tackled Warren, knocking him off of his feet. They wrestled back-and-forth, laughing. “I thought you were dead.”

“Nope. But I’m gonna get you!” Chris tried to roll Warren into the stream.

“Oh no you don’t!” They struggled against each other, edging closer to the water. This was, in part, due to Chris’ efforts, but mostly to the hill they were rolling down. Before either of them knew what was happening, they were both in the drink.

“Aw man. I’m all wet. I’d better go home and change.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Do you wanna meet here tomorrow?”

“Sure!”

“OK. I live right there across the street. That’s my dad. Just stop by and get me if I’m not here yet.”

The next morning Warren came to the garden early. Chris wasn’t there, so he sat down and waited. The sun rose above the trees, bringing with it the heat. Warren started to worry. Maybe Chris got into trouble for coming home all wet. His mother had certainly given him a hard time about it. Maybe he’s hurt from getting hit with that peach. Warren ran across the street to Chris’ house and knocked on the door. There was no answer. He rang the doorbell once... twice... a thir --, the door opened and Chris stood there, the right side of his face black-and-blue.

“Hey!” Warren exclaimed. “Did I do that? Are you okay?”

“I’m not allowed to...” Chris spoke softly, as if he was afraid of being overheard.

“You’re not allowed to what? Did you get in trouble?”

“I’m not allowed to play with you anymore.”

“What!?”

“Shhh. It’s my dad. He says I can’t play with you because you’re--”

“CHRIS! You Get Back In This House Right Now! I won’t have you running around out there with no nigger!” Chris jerked back as if he had been struck.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, and closed the door in Warren’s face.

Warren turned away and looked one last time at the garden. Its beauty had already begun to fade and he never wanted to play there again.

--to be continued--

“…and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubim, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to guard the way of the tree of life.” ~Genesis 3:24 KJV