Incomplete

A work of fiction

Photo by Rainier Ridao on Unsplash

I wander, barefoot, in the tomato garden, sullen-looking until the sun peeks. It smells of iron, sugar, and the pepper of basil planted alongside each row. Heady aromas for a big day. I adjust the trellis Jim fastened for the beans that didn’t grow, remembering to avoid the rusted nail that bent under his strength.

The air is getting colder in the morning. The dew signifying the end of summer turns to autumn’s frosty breaths. I wrap the wool blanket tighter around my shoulders and inhale deep, hold for five, then exhale with force. The cold cloud forms in front of my face and fades.

Everything fades.

Twenty steps beyond the garden is the tree we planted on our first anniversary. It bears scratches in shades of orange—sap weeping from the wounds. I count the hash marks signifying the days since Jim died.

“Three hundred,” I whisper. I use my fingernails to mark the day and taste the bark left under them to anchor my connection. Jim lies here, providing nourishment to our tree.

In my left hand, I finger my wedding band. Scratched from decades of gardening, cleaning, and life. The deepest gouge happened when we tried white water rafting. Our boat capsized and I crawled from underneath using the riverbed rocks. When I surfaced, Jim was calling my name; his eyes glazed over. I knew his fear. The water pushed over his back, surrounding him with foam. He held me against the shore and kissed my forehead free of his tears as his breath hitched in his chest. I felt the beat through his life vest.

“I can’t leave your side again,” Jim said.

Jim’s first clone of himself was snoring on the couch when I left the house for my stroll, his second was in the guest room, his third in the basement. My hand caressed the door of Jim’s lab as I walked by, left padlocked three-hundred days ago on the day he died. Dust settled on clone number four atop a stainless steel slab behind the wooden slats.

Another dead Jim.

We dreamt of that room becoming a nursery when we bought the house. With every miscarriage we would sit together on the hardwood floor and empty ourselves of tears. When the miscarriages stopped, so did our hopes and the room repurposed.

A strong hand touches my shoulder now, sidling up as I need his strength. My heart flutters as a waft of Jim’s cologne fills my nostrils, somehow smelling sour instead of musky. Tears well.

“I’m here for you,” Jim says, though it’s redundant.

“I know,” I reply to the oldest Jim clone. He trims his grey the way I like it, his trousers pressed with a crisp seam down the length of his slim legs. His shoulders are broad and have absorbed the most tears.

He was my Jim’s first gift.

“Hey? Coming for breakfast?” The second Jim’s throaty voice beckons from the porch, the smell of bacon preceding his words. He is wearing my flowered apron and pressed khakis but his hair is parted on the other side.

“To tell them a part,” my Jim had laughed at his own pun.

“On my way, Jim. One minute.” I gaze back at the tree. My breaths are deep and long and I count them to calm my nerves. Jim One stands at my side, keeping his breath from fogging my view of our spot. When the cold from my feet reaches my chest, I lose count of my air. I shiver.

“Happy anniversary?” His questioning tone says it all.

“Yes. Happy anniversary. Today is thirty years,” I say to the tree and pause.

“Gotta go, babe.” I touch the bark with my palm and wipe my eyes. Kneeling to scrape at the soil, I place my ring in its loam, cover the band with earth, and hold my hand on top to feel the chill on my palm. Jim’s presence seeps through the soil, and I remind myself to continue.

“It’s time,” I say to the dirt and stand. A tear drops to the pile. “Your clones are calling. They’ll stay close now.” I kiss the tree. Jim Two and Three watch me approach the house arm in arm with One. They appear identical in every way except in the way I need.

I sometimes write flash fiction—1000 words or less. I rarely share these, but now I have the venue. Most of my flash is based on prompts. This was sci-fi, the scene was in the woods, and I had to use the word close.

Where I’ll be in May… and you can help!

In four weeks I will be in PERU on a service trip with the Dragonfliers—a group of mothers, friends and adventurous women from Etobicoke, who believe in giving back to communities both local and abroad. In May we are embarking on a volunteer mission to Peru, where we will support the incredible work of Awamaki, a nonprofit dedicated to empowering Quechua women through economic opportunities. This will be our second service trip abroad having helped rebuild a school in rural Ecuador in 2023.

Why We Need Your Support

By raising funds, we are supporting their culture and traditional weaving skills, which are grounded in sustainability and community. Every dollar you contribute will directly support: ✔ The purchase of essential supplies for the artisans’ textile projects and for reaching new markets ✔ Fair wages for these skilled tradeswomen ✔ The growth of women-led cooperatives that preserve traditional craftsmanship ✔ Sustainable economic opportunities that foster financial independence for Quechua women which then benefits the greater community.

Thank you for your support!

Sincerely,

Deb, Carmen, Sperry, Katarina, Daphne, Kristine, Jane and Heather.

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