When Martin woke, the first thing he noticed was the quiet. The kind that comes when the world has changed overnight. He sat up in bed, feeling the chill reach for him from the windowpane, and knew before he looked that the frost had come.
Outside, the lawn was silver. The leaves he had raked into a neat pile the evening before were stiff and pale now, dusted white like old bones. He could see his breath when he stood at the kitchen sink, and it felt strange to him—this return of the season he’d been waiting for, and yet, somehow, dreading.
He made coffee the way he always did, slow and careful. When the mug was warm in his hands, he stood by the window again. Across the yard, the garden lay quiet. The last tomatoes had gone soft weeks ago, and the stalks of beans hung brittle and brown. He should have pulled them out sooner, but he couldn’t bring himself to. It felt like giving up.
She used to be the one who told him when to pull the garden, when to cut the perennials, when to put the shovel away for the winter. She’d say, You’ve got to listen to the earth, Martin. It tells you when it’s done for the year.
The first frost had always been her favourite morning. She’d go out in her slippers, breath clouding the air, and touch every frozen thing like it was a small miracle. He could still see her bending to lift a leaf from the ground, holding it to the light, saying how beautiful the end of things could be.
Now, the frost came without her. And though the world was beautiful, it felt quieter than it should.
He stepped outside, his breath rising in thin plumes. The grass crunched under his boots, and the air smelled of cold and damp and woodsmoke from the neighbour’s chimney. He walked to the garden and ran his fingers along the top of the fence where the frost had gathered. It melted at his touch.
He didn’t say her name, but he thought it. He thought it the way one does when they’re alone but not truly.
By the shed, a small sparrow hopped along the frozen ground, pecking at something invisible. It startled when he moved, wings flicking fast, then settled again. He stood and watched it, the small shape against the vast pale morning, and felt the sharp pull of time.
When he went back inside, the house felt colder than before. But the coffee was still warm, and the light coming through the window had softened to gold. He stood there a long time, watching the frost retreat, drop by drop, as the day took hold.
He thought maybe he’d start the garden again come spring. Just a few things—beans, maybe some tomatoes. Nothing big. Nothing fancy.
But enough to listen to the earth again. Enough to feel her there.
The CJBuzz 