Tasya
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“Yeah, yeah.” She said dismissively and turned towards the entrance door with the Yorkie and Westie trotting behind her. “But no drugs! You hear me!”
“Yes ma’am. Of course.” Hugh said, but he was sure she hadn't heard him. She and her dogs had vanished around the corner and were probably outside already.
Out of habit, Hugh looked down at this watch. He didn't know at what time he had entered the building nor how long he had spent with the old lady's dogs, but he knew that he had wasted too much time. He needed to grab the spade from his apartment and bring it back to the black-haired girl. She had been sassy before and Hugh could only imagine how she would be now that he was late.
Even before arriving at his door, Hugh had already plucked his keys from his pocket. With a concentrated and fluid motion he inserted the key into the lock, pulled the door handle down and dived into his apartment. He made no effort to collect his keys or close the door.
First he checked under the bed but found only old boxes from gadgets of years past.
He swung open closet doors, but only found hanging shirts that he had forgotten that he owned.
In the kitchen, behind the sofa, above the TV, in the bathroom, he checked everywhere but could not find his grandmother's boxes.
Hugh started to worry that he may have thrown out his grandmother's belongings, or even worse, he may have all the long imagined being in possession of them.
Hugh dragged a chair into the corridor, jammed it up against the fridge, leap onto the chair, and investigated the cupboards tucked away there.
He found the boxes, resting peacefully on the cupboard's middle shelf. Hugh extended his arms to grab the boxes, but they were a few centimeters out of reach. Hugh propped his left elbow onto the top of the fridge, gave himself a boost in height by standing on his toes, and flicked the edges of the boxes with his right pointer finger until they slid into grabbing range.
After precariously rocking the chair on two legs to the point of almost crashing to the ground, Hugh finally retrieved the boxes. With them in hand, he jumped down from the chair, rushed to the kitchen and placed them on the kitchen table.
Hugh ripped into the boxes, tearing stained tape, and shredding flaky chunks of cardboard. Inside he found rusted knitting and sewing needles, thimbles, crusty paintbrushes and palettes, old beaded jewelry on fine string, tiny cast molds that could shape wild animals, a handmade ceramic Halloween pumpkin, dark room photos of her husband in youth, and a myriad of other things that widened Hugh's perspective to the creative and artistic nature of his grandmother.
She had always been grandma to him, but as Hugh handled these belongings her identity diversified and multiplied into something more. She was a grandma, wife, mom, knitter, painter, craftswoman, photographer and much more.
At the bottom of the second box, Hugh located the much more that he had been seeking – grandma as the gardener.
With spade in hand and warm thoughts of his grandmother in his heart, he sprinted out the door and descended the staircase two steps at a time.
Hugh threw the entrance door open and sprinted out the building. He stopped short as a car whizzed by with no regards for pedestrians as it searched of a parking spot. Hugh accelerated back to a sprint and charged towards the flowerbed looking like a pretend knight ready to pierce a soil and dirt dragon through the heart with his gardening spade.
Hugh reached the flowerbed and scanned the benches, the playground, and the paths leading around the fortress.
The black-haired girl was nowhere to be seen.
Small piles of soil, poorly dug holes, and a lone stick were all the remained of the girl.
Hugh inspected her handywork and noticed that he could see only holes. There were no dirt mounds that one would expect to see after planting seeds. On two occasions he had witnessed her hard at work in the flowerbed and even though she had been using first her fingernails and then a stick, she should have made some sort of progress on planting seeds. All that she had accomplished was the unearthing and tossing of soil.
Hugh shifted the spade from one hand to another.
Even if planting seeds had been just an excuse for her to sit and dig aimlessly, Hugh wished that he had returned and given her the spade.
He spun the spade on its handle, the polished wood gliding without a scratch against his skin.
Hugh had a feeling that the spade would have made her digging a little bit more enjoyable.
Hugh rang his fingers along the edges and thought of how his grandmother must have held it and how the black-haired girl would have held it.
Then Hugh stepped over the brick ring around the flowerbed and sat down in the soil, not caring if his clothes were dirtied. He crossed his legs and got comfortable despite the soil making its way into his shoes and down his trousers legs.
Hugh lifted the spade and dug his own holes.
He became the spade knight whose mission was to slay the soil dragon.
Hole after hole Hugh dug. Pile after pile he stacked. He pierced the soil dragon and laid it to the side piece by piece.
He became entranced by the monotonous mechanical process of piercing, scooping, and chucking the soil dragon. The dragon was too slow to dodge Hugh's well-placed thrusts and its scales too weak to deflect his precise blows. Hugh was the spade knight, and no dragon stood a chance against him.
Hugh placed the spade in his lap and brushed away his moistened brow with a soil covered hand. He shielded his eyes and looked towards the sun that was skirting the horizon. It was shining the strongest it had all day.