Page 55 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

June 2, 2011

06:15—Sky the color of dishwater, but clearing.

08:40—Scorpion grass everywhere. Hate the stuff—smells like wet envelope glue and clings like regret.

09:30—Tried to pull it up by its stubborn roots, but they snap easy and come back twice as thick.

Visitors—Lydia, Rick, Logan working on the barn in earnest. Tried to get Val to help with the weeds, but she told me it was more fun to watch me flail.

“What am I looking at?” I ask.

“The scorpion grass. Here.” He leans closer to turn the page and his shoulder—far too solid to be human—presses against mine. “It keeps coming up.”

June 10, 2011

07:10—Scorpion grass spreading low and sneaky. Stuff slips past the trowel like it’s avoiding a debt collector.

“And another just a few days later,” Logan says. He thumbs over a couple of pages, guides the journal back.

June 15, 2011

06:55—Stuff’s blooming now. Pale blue, all over. Looks harmless if you don’t know any better.

Visitors—Plenty, but none with good ideas. Val (wants me to try a sledgehammer next time), Rick (left too quickly to survey properly), and Lydia (thinks it’s dreamy and I should let it be). Ali gets in tonight—won’t force her to weigh in until we’ve celebrated properly.

“There are a bunch of days it isn’t mentioned,” Logan says, “but those entries are focused on your uncle’s other work. But then…”

July 5, 2011

09:10—Scorpion grass is thick as a rug in the lower rows, buzzing with bees. Lydia called it a ground cover and smiled like she’d just won the argument. Maybe she has.

Visitors—Lydia and Ali

“Or this one.”

July 23, 2011

07:20—It’s blooming again—blue as a crack of sky after a hard storm. Lydia brought tea. We sat in the middle like it was a blanket. Didn’t itch once.

Visitors—Lydia

I look up. “It’s connected to your mom. He mentions it whenever she’s there.”

“Exactly.”

“Does it disappear after she leaves?”

“Yes. With one exception. Well, Martin doesn’t name it, but I think it’s clear.”

He skims through pages, clearly passing some months, before landing on an entry in messy black pen.

December 1, 2011

07:30—Chilly, plenty of morning frost. No snow yet, but I’m sure it’s on the way.

08:20—It’s back. Blue flowers under the rusted old gate. Thinner, like it doesn’t want to take up too much space. Color’s softer now, too.

14:45—Orchard’s been quiet. Birds quieter, too. Clouds rolled in but haven’t done much.