Grampy Fernside's Arc

Chapter 18 of 22

Grampy left the covered bed at first light and started down the path with his cane. The bouquet had a frame, stones, and eighteen living sprouts under cloth. What it did not have was a way to be presented. A handful of stems pulled from soil would look like weeds in his fist. He needed a wrapper, a tie, and a filler. Two days remained. He stopped where the path dipped past a low hedge. White baby's breath grew there in a soft cloud. He cut a full spray with his pocket knife and laid it across his forearm. The tiny blossoms would fill the gaps between the pink blooms and make the bouquet look full even if a sprout or two stayed short. Further on, a peddler's wagon stood at the bend. Two goats chewed at the harness. Jars of seeds and bundles of dried herbs hung from hooks along the side. The merchant was a stranger, sunburned and quick-eyed, sorting packets on the drop-shelf. "Morning," Grampy said. He leaned on the cane. "You carry paper?" The merchant lifted a folded sheet from a basket. Pressed ferns ran through it in green veins. "Fern paper. Two coppers, or trade." Grampy did not have two coppers on him. He did have the small tin in his pocket, the one he carried out of habit. He opened it. Six heirloom tomato seeds sat inside, saved from the year he and his wife filled bags for strangers. "Six of these," Grampy said. "They breed true. Big fruit. Split-resistant." The merchant took one, bit it lightly, nodded. "Done." Grampy folded the fern paper carefully into his satchel with the baby's breath and moved on. The path opened at the pond. A carved bench sat beside the water, lily pads painted across its back. He lowered himself onto the seat and rested the cane against his knee. Across the pond stood the pavilion where he had married her forty years ago. Vines still climbed the posts. Flowers still hung from the eaves. That was where he would give her the bouquet on the anniversary morning. He took stock. Paper for the wrap. Filler for the gaps. He still needed the tie. He thought of the trunk under their bed and the length of ivory ribbon inside it, cut from the hem of her wedding dress the night before their first tomato harvest. She had saved it for him to use once. He had waited forty years for the once. He would fetch the ribbon tonight while she baked. Fern paper around the stems. Baby's breath tucked between the pink blooms and the framed flower. Ribbon knotted at the base. Grampy stood on the cane and started back. The presentation was solved. Now the last six sprouts had to break ground in two days, or the wrapping would hold nothing but promises.