rhubarb one of these days.â
I find myself smiling. She has a calming way about her, despite the wild hair and the singsongy voice. Sheâs at ease with herself.
âI can talk about gardening all day,â she says. âIt gets like that, you know?â
Thereâs not a single potted plant in our apartment, but I nod.
âI lived in Rome a whileâlong storyâbut I even managed to garden there . . . on a four-foot-square terrace,â she says proudly.
âMy familyâs from Italy.â
âWhereabouts?â
âMamaâs family was from Calabria, Papaâs are from Sicily. But my parents met here, in the States.â
I think of my family, all together at a feast for one of the festivals. They speak in Sicilian dialect with the older generation, or to swear, and in Italian with the Calabresi or other American-Italian friends. English for Alex, of course. Weâre a mixed bunchâdiverse as orphans, thick as thieves.
âLike Cyndi Lauper,â Merriem says.
âSheâs Italian?â
âHer motherâs Sicilian.â
âI didnât know that.â
I think of Bella and me, an infinitely long time ago, hopping around to âGirls Just Want to Have Fun,â ponytails bouncing, TV and stereo remotes as microphones.
âA lot of Italians garden using moon charts like I do,â Merriem says. âYouâd think it wouldnât sit so well with the Catholicside of things, but it seems to. Food must be too important to get messed up in religion.â
âWe love our food. Thatâs no myth.â
âIt works. I get tomatoes that are as big as footballs.â Merriem winks at me. âBesides, itâs not as kooky as it seems. The sun and the moon make the tides, and the tides affect water. What do plants need most? Or seeds, I should say. Moisture. Right at the surface of the soil where they can use it best. There are also tides in the air, lunar winds, and even earth tidesâthe soil rising and falling inches in a day.â
âReally?â
âYup. Itâs old stuff. Planting calendars have been around for centuries. Waxing moons and waning moons are good for different things, and when you put that together with the signs you can figure just the right date for planting. Or picking.â
When Merriem smiles her freckled cheeks rise up and her eyes almost disappear, like vanishing moons themselves. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, her limbs lean and her back straight, graceful and yet full of latent energy.
âItâs a waning moon now,â she says. âCould you tell? Itâs pretty black at night. Can take some getting used to when youâre accustomed to regular light switches and all the rest.â
I nod, thinking of our little apartment with every comfort and convenience. At the cabin everything takes a lot more effortâcooking, washing, going to the bathroom.
âMakes you realize just how much of a human hand there is in every single thing we do, everything we touch. Weâve madeliving so easy itâs hard to know whoâs in control. Nature or us? Sure feels like us.â
âNot here,â I say.
She nods. âNo, not out here in the forest. Here weâre in Godâs palm.â
Itâs something Papa or the aunties would say.The thought makes me shiver a little: how limited the control we have over the things that matter is. My generation expects the world to yield to our command, to do as we bid it. How naive we are.
*Â Â *Â Â *
I walk back to the cabin through the dappled light and duff that smells both sweet and rotting. Iâm carrying a basket filled with spears of asparagus and two big jars of pretty, pink, stewed rhubarb.
Coming along the path the other way is a woman, looking at her feet as she walks. Sheâs wearing jeans, a big shirt, and sneakers that were white once. She has a hat over the top of long blond hair.