ECKO

The symphony of the world is extra loud today. Or, maybe, my family's brief visit to Uncle Osias and Berlin's urban pack had made me extra sensitive to the quaint, rural grounds where my Dad and Papa's pack was established. But either way, as I inhaled a breath of the fresh, open air that smelled distinctly of home, the world around me expanded into a mesmerizing kaleidoscope of sound.

Birds' beaks knocked together in the treetops as they fed their hungry young, caterpillars tap, tap, tapped their countless little feet in a steady rhythm, traversing across bouncing leaves as they prepared for metamorphosis, and wind whistled through the slender space that lay between every verdant, sharp blade of grass...

The thought of the countless, tiny worlds harmoniously coexisting all around me summoned a radiant smile upon my lips as I bumbled my way along the path laid before me, drenched in nearly an entire bottle of sunscreen which was – of course – generously applied by the constantly worrisome hands of my Papa. Meanwhile, my empty, knitted harvesting tote bounced against my wide hip, swaying this way and that with each step. 

In its empty state, my tote's barely-there weight whispered promises of endless possibilities, as if it, too, were anticipating the bounty that was sure to await me.

Having endured the past couple of days at my uncles' pack, where tedious paperwork monopolized Dad and Papa's attention and my siblings and I hung with my insane cousins Hale and Cassius, I couldn't help but anticipate the vibrant transformation my garden must have undergone during my absence. Hopefully, my plant babies missed me just as much as I missed them.

The wind whistled loudly then, whipping around my body in ribbons as I giggled, reaching up when my gardening bandana flew backward over my eyes with the force of it. With the wind came a slew of renewed scents, all of them so powerful and dizzying that I could barely tease out where one ended and the next began.

My left forearm tingled beneath my billowing shirt as I finally ascended the final hill on my journey, revealing the sprawling, lush world that was my personal heaven – also known as my garden. Its magnificence – as always – took my breath away, and I instinctually paused to absorb the view from the hilltop.

What had once been only a modest plot of earth adorned with a few, choice seeds, my garden had grown right alongside me over the years, expanding and transforming to accommodate bigger and better things. Now, it stretched for what felt like forever, weaving in and out of the trees in an organic shape that blended in with the flow of the land, a natural stream of fertile soil flowing endlessly.

Honestly, if it weren't for the archway that Papa built me which marked the gateway to my garden. Time and encroaching vines had partially concealed my name, which was etched deep into the wood at the arch's peak, but still, it remained a testament to my presence, letting any stray visitors know that if they touched my precious babies, they would face my family's wrath... also known as Dad's chancla.

And now, for my favorite part.

My short legs flew beneath me at once, arms flying open as I hurtled down the steep hill, the world flying around me in a swirl of light and colors. Somewhere along the way, although I couldn't pinpoint the exact moment, my legs surrendered to the relentless pace of the rest of my body, and a squeal of exhilaration thrummed through me as I tumbled through the tall grasses, rolling my way down the rest of the hill in a cascade of chaos and joy.

Every ounce of breath left me as I completed my final revolution, collapsing in a disheveled heap at the bottom of the hill; crimson hair tangled with dirt, my billowing shirt stained with smudges of grass. Yet, as I gazed up at the cloudy heavens, a fit of laughter bubbling from within me as I lay surrounded by the symphony of buzzing insects and the pulsating vitality of the world, I'd never felt more alive.

This place was my sanctuary, a sacred oasis where no harm could ever find me. And for just a moment – no matter how fleeting – the world was kind.

I have no clue how long I just laid there, sprawled out on the grass, soaking up whatever scarce sunbeams managed to sneak through the looming cumulous clouds. But eventually, Dad's voice echoed in the recesses of my mind, nagging me about my delicate "ginger skin" and its inability to handle too much sunlight. 

And, as if to punctuate the memory, a chilly gust of wind nipped at me, reminding me that as winter crept closer, my precious moments with my last fall harvest were moving farther from my grasp. So, with a sudden burst of motivation, I scrambled to my feet, disregarding the dried leaves and clinging grass still attached to my clothes and limbs as I made my way toward the arch.

"Hey there, marigolds!" I chirped, crouching down at the entrance of my garden to begin the process of paying my respects. The pretty, yellow flowers lined the entire outskirts of my garden, forming a protective barrier that warded off mosquitoes and the like – especially those little pests that liked to nibble at my sweet tomatoes. They might have been small, but my marigolds were true warriors, constantly fighting to keep their brothers and sisters safe. 

"I appreciate all of your hard work," I whispered, reaching over to my tote to grab the small pouch that hung off of the side. Dipping a hand inside to grab a tiny pinch of its contents between my thumb and forefinger, I carefully sprinkled the glimmering fairy dust atop the nearest flowers, just like my Uncle Daffodil had shown me so ages ago. Instantly, the blooms responded to the touch of magick, stretching their stems skyward in a similar manner that water reached for the shore. 

Fairy dust was a hot commodity, hard to come by even when I had an uncle who was a bonafide fairy living behind The Veil with his mate, Uncle Tyrus. So, in order to make my meager supply last, I had to select the plants that I chose to enchant wisely.

With a final, grateful smile directed at the marigolds, I rose from the ground and dusted off my knees. Then, navigating through the intertwining maze of fruits, vegetables, and flowers, I trod lightly on my tiptoes, resembling a cautious ballerina, wary of crushing any delicate life beneath my feet.

Thankfully, my flax plants were within a reasonable distance, merely fifteen feet away from the garden's entrance, and in no time, I found myself crouched before them, wielding my trusty gardening shears to gather a few clippings. 

"Hey there, lovelies!" I greeted while I meticulously harvested, careful not to take too much. "Ooo, this one is definitelylong enough for a large fruit bowl..." This versatile plant was perfect for one of my other side hobbies: weaving. From the moment I first harvested its sturdy stalks and read of their potential in one of my many gardening books, the art of weaving had become one of my favorite pastimes. The way that I intertwined the fibers was reminiscent of Papa's similar hobby of knitting, and throughout my childhood, the art of craft was a shared love that had bonded us.

Countless evenings had been spent in Papa's quiet company as we worked, nestled under a blanket by the crackling fireplace, our sole companions being the soothing hum of his record player and the portrait of my parents, forever frozen in time on their wedding day. That picture, nestled in an ornate frame that had hung above the fireplace since a time before my birth, held a special place in my heart, seeing as to how it captured an exceedingly rare sight – Papa's one and only genuine smile.

Tying the flax up in a short clipping of twine and tucking the bundle into my tote for safekeeping, I moved deeper into my garden, ducking under the low-hanging branches of the first tree as I ventured on in search of my favorite vegetable in the history of the entire world – cucumber.

Yeah, yeah, laugh all you want, I know what you're probably thinking. And... yes, maybe I have dabbled in a few late-night experiments involving a certain rogue cucumber or two, tucking them underneath my mattress for safekeeping until the blanket of night shielded me from all shame and I could pant out into the darkness, stretching myself open until...

Ehem. Let's just say, there may have been more than one occasion in which I found myself engaged in some rather... unconventional activities involving an intimate relationship between my sopping hole and the large, phallic-shaped vegetable. 

Well, that is until one day, I stumbled into my room after school to find a gift on my bed, adorned with colorful wrapping paper and a tag that bore the most humiliating message known to wolf or man – 'Spare the poor cucumbers' souls. This will serve you much better. With love, Dad.'

Part 2 in Next Episode