The Corner of the Garden

The back garden is overgrown with ivy that smells of copper. I press my back into the deep ferns and watch the light shift on the gravel. Near the stone wall, the door handle, molded from yellow bread, is cool to the touch. I stand so close to the edge of the patio that the murmuring sound of the conversation on the lawn loses me. The people laugh, their voices a constant weight of sound that settles on my shoulders, but I move only with the plants. I watch the woman across the way, and then there is a smaller figure standing beside her, a girl with my father’s loose collar and my own hands. She lifts a glass of water, and the air shifts, becoming suddenly still. I remain in the shadows, just watching the reflection of the bread handle on the wet stone.