Time Grows Apart

Emily Wesoloski

The shade had been an observer for as long as she could remember. She wasn’t a ghost, not really — maybe she couldn’t manifest herself physically, but she didn’t haunt. She watched the world around her, and she mostly kept to herself.

She couldn’t remember anything from before waking up underneath her basswood tree. It was late winter then, and everything had been so cold. She’d watch the evergreens of her forest grow, millimeter by millimeter despite the oppressive snow. She’d reach a translucent hand out towards the deer that would wander past her in her clearing, gusts of wind spooking them away before she could ever touch their silky pelts. It took the snow disappearing for her to finally explore the forest away from the ancient basswood. Once the trees began to bud and the forest woke up, she couldn’t help herself — she had to see it all.

She’d watch a bud open up and flower over the course of a few days, or lay in the grass as it righted itself and went green, standing proud. And the further into the forest she drifted, the more new life she found. Every nook, every cranny was teeming with things she had never seen before. There were vibrant flowers, new animals and bugs, countless living things that the snow had hidden away. It filled her with wonder and something new — a feeling she didn’t know how to name, but something that warmed the cold, quiet loneliness of winter.

And eventually, she found the forest’s edge. All the trees simply stopped to make way for homes, a small collection of them nestled at the bottom of the forest hill. But it wasn’t the homes that struck her, it was the people inside them that captured her attention. They looked like her, except they were something where she was nothing. They spoke together, they laughed together, and they manipulated the world around themselves in all the ways she couldn’t. They left marks, and she couldn’t keep away.

—

The shade grew especially fond of an older woman, one who was no stranger to dirt and earth. The woman had a garden, and each year it was one of the most beautiful things the shade had ever seen. Slowly, over the course of spring it would take shape, the woman toiling away in until everything seemed just right, and by summer her yard would be full of color and tiny creatures enjoying all the work that was put into it. It always reminded the shade of something she once knew from before the basswood tree. There was a familiar feeling attached to it — she had once known a place like it, she thought.

On a particularly warm spring day though, the shade discovered that the older woman wasn’t alone like usual. She was getting ready to plant new tulip bulbs, and sitting next to those bulbs was a tiny child, babbling away. The shade listened as the little girl spoke nonsense, and the woman would respond each time with her own soft, affectionate comments as though she could understand her. It made the shade laugh a little, and the scene warmed her from the inside. She heard the woman refer to the child as Lilly, and from then on the shade did as well.

And Lilly quickly became a constant visitor at the woman’s house, much to the shade’s excitement. She was a bubbly child, she brought a twinkle to the woman’s eyes where they had been dull before. Eventually, Lilly became old enough to call the woman Grandma, so the shade did so too.

Lilly and Grandma did everything together. They worked in the garden, they popped popcorn, they went on day trips, and they napped. The shade watched as Grandma taught Lilly how to dig a hole, and laughed with Grandma after Lilly dug far more holes than necessary. And she agreed with Grandma when she told Lilly they would plant a Christmas tree in every hole — as Lilly was a terrific garden designer. She’d hover by the window, her dark, blurred form washed out by the yellow light of the kitchen as Grandma let Lilly eat raw cookie dough off the spoon, telling her “life is nothing without a little bit of risk.”

One day, Lilly was running through the garden with a ribbon trailing behind her, flying like the kites that were still too big for her to carry. She ran faster, faster, trying to lift away from the grass. She gave a jump, and the shade almost believed it would happen, that Lilly might float like she did, but instead Lilly crashed face first into the boldly blooming lilacs. When she finally righted herself, rolling from her tummy to her back, then lifting her head, she sat there in silence at first. Her eyes looked faraway, and then her nose started to bleed. She started to shake, making no noise at first, but then the tears came and when she opened her mouth, the shade saw that Lilly was now missing her front tooth.

The shade was at her side in an instant, desperate to comfort or help the poor girl, but she didn’t know how. She couldn’t be heard, she couldn’t be seen, and she couldn’t be felt — she was nothing, she wasn’t alive. She crouched and rested a murky hand on Lilly anyways, desperate to make a difference, and she started shouting for Grandma in unison with the little girl’s cries.

Grandma had been making macaroni and cheese when she’d finally heard the crying and ran outside to see what was wrong. “It’s okay, Lilly. You’re okay now,”

Grandma said as she hugged the little girl, and the shade whispered reassurances too, however unheard they were. They searched the grass for Lilly’s fallen tooth, and Grandma took her hand to walk her inside. After Lilly’s tears had dried, they found some ice cream to have for lunch instead of the unfinished macaroni.

“Will the tooth fairy come now?” Lilly asked, chocolate smothered all over her face.

“I think so,” Grandma told her with a laugh. “And who knows what you’ll get, rumor has it that a first lost tooth had to be worth at least a whole dollar.” Lilly grew very excited at that, and while her grin was a little crooked, her giggles were just the same as before.

The shade had stayed by the window, keeping herself from joining the two in the kitchen. The way she hadn’t been able to help made her feel hollow — she’d wanted to interact before, but she’d never felt such a desperate need until today. She went out into the garden on her own and let out a silent, cathartic scream of frustration. A breeze swept through the flowers and they swayed lazily, but that was all. She watched the bees for a while, silent and sad, before going back to Grandma’s little blue house — Grandma and Lilly were taking a nap side by side on an overstuffed couch.

—

The shade has a habit of losing track of time, but she always knows when it’s Lilly’s birthday. The first thing Grandma and Lilly do is find Lilly’s birthday hat, a silly, dazzling thing made of glitter and googly eyes — a paper cone decorated by Lilly herself when she turned four. Then, they get to work on the chocolate cake — Lilly’s favorite. By the time the cake goes in the oven, the kitchen always looks like the flour bag exploded (it probably did) and more cake mix made it to the floor than the mixing bowl (which is very likely).

“Strawberries! We’re going to need eight candles and eight strawberries if we want to decorate,” Grandma tells Lilly, shooing her outside into the garden while she cleans. Lilly wasted no time following directions, and the shade leaves her post at the window to follow.

Out in the garden, Lilly took turns between placing strawberries in a bowl and placing them in her mouth — saving a few especially red ones for Grandma to have, too. That’s when she saw it, a little fuzzy bumblebee lying still on the ground. She reached out without a second thought and cradled it in her hand. It was soft and dead. Lilly slowly walked back to the kitchen, hand cupped protectively and the bowl of strawberries forgotten.

“Grandma, I found a bee,” Lilly said, voice delicate.

“Oh did you?” Grandma was pulling the cake out of the oven.

“It’s not moving, I have it — here.” She held her hands up to Grandma, concerned for the motionless bug in her palm. Grandma peered at it and put her reassuring hands on Lilly’s shoulders.

“The little thing has left us, Lilly,” She started, trying to form the right words. “Bees work very hard to care for their flowers, but eventually, like how the flowers all go in winter, bees die too. It’s nothing to be sad about, it was this little one’s time today.”

“Do I have a time?” Lilly asked, brows furrowing.

“We all have one dear; even me.”

“But I don’t want you to leave!” Lilly’s eyes went wide with worry.

“And I won’t not for a long time, I promise. I’m too busy taking care of my flower.” Grandma hugged Lilly tight, careful not to crush the bee, and they went off together to find a little box to fill with cotton. The shade stayed where she was, something about what she’d just listened to Grandma say striking her mind. She felt colder than usual — the kind of cold she felt when she was away from Grandma and Lilly. There was something in her memories, a younger basswood tree and a fuller clearing — a clearing with a garden and small creatures. And there was cold snow, a cold ground, and cold fingers. It was where her time had expired.

Before the shade could fall into her memories, Grandma and Lilly reemerged in the kitchen. Lilly held the bee, now in a little box, and Grandma had a garden spade. They opened the kitchen’s rickety screen door and drifted to the tulips. Grandma dug a little hole, and Lilly placed the box into it — they held a little funeral for the bee, then went back inside to decorate the cooled cake. The shade stayed in the garden a little while longer, kneeling at the little mound of fresh dirt piled above the bee’s grave. She whispered a thank you to it, for working so hard in the garden, and she could have sworn her words could’ve been heard in the breeze. —

It worried the shade, how birthdays kept passing. One moment Lilly was eight, the next she was eighteen and visited Grandma less. She was busy with school, she’d tell Grandma when she did come around, and she was so sorry. Grandma always waved her off, telling her not to worry, but the shade saw how much the quiet got to the older woman. She kept herself busy with daily walks, and she was constantly repainting and remodeling her tired little house, but her eyes didn’t shine as much anymore — unless Lilly was stopping by. The shade tried to keep her company, but there was never much she could do.

That’s why the shade guessed Grandma was more than eager to host Lilly’s high school graduation party. It was quite the event — the people and the food and the fun, it was all overwhelming to the shade, but Lilly was smiling, and that’s all she and Grandma could hope for. But it’s also Lilly’s last night before she leaves for college, moving states away on a scholarship. After the party, once everyone has gone, Lilly and Grandma sat outside together in comfortable silence until it grows dark. The shade hovered nearby, keeping a little more distance than she’d grown accustomed to. She didn’t want to intrude too deeply into their time together, but she was also caught up in what the big move meant. Her little family would have to break up.

Eventually, it became too late for Grandma. She got up slowly from her chair and put a gentle hand on Lilly’s shoulder. “I’ll see you in the morning, dear. We can have cake for breakfast.”

Lilly smiled at that, forever captured by her Grandma’s soft charisma. A few moments after the old kitchen door swung shut, Lilly went to sit in the garden, the shade following. They each sat surrounded by the flowers wilting at the end of summer, and Lilly doesn’t cry, but the shade has learned what someone looks like when they’d like to.

“I’ll miss you,” Lilly whispers to the garden in front of her once she’s ready to stand. The shade says a silent me too into the wind.

—

For her senior year of college, Lilly comes home for an unusually warm spring break. Grandma is eager to get a start on shaping this year’s garden. Lilly helps wherever she can, shouldering the heavy lifting and strenuous tasks. Grandma lets her, but not without a fight. The shade has watched Grandma get weaker over the last few years, she’s not as fit as she used to be. Lilly has taken notice when she’s been home between semesters, but neither of them talk about it. It’s nothing to worry about, they tell themselves, and that scares the shade.

—

It’s two years until Lilly is able to come home again. She stayed away after graduating college, she got a job and she wanted to visit sooner, but she couldn’t find the time. If she had known how serious it was, if Grandma had just told her, she would’ve come back in an instant. She would’ve found a job closer to home, closer to Grandma, but that’s exactly why the older woman hadn’t said a thing.

The last few months had been filled with deep coughs and long rests on the overstuffed couch. Grandma had insisted on maintaining her garden, even if it meant she lacked the energy to do much else, but she made do. The shade watched everything, but could never do anything past sitting with Grandma in the quiet living room, putting an invisible hand on hers. It was all she could do for the older woman, and it broke her misty heart.

Grandma had been able to call Lilly right before she passed, to say her goodbyes, and if the shade could have wept with them both, she would have. She felt cold on that day — cold and alone in a way she hadn’t known since awaking under the basswood tree.

But no matter how sad the shade felt, she knew Lilly felt it more.. Lilly came home less than a day later, and she struggled to believe her Grandma was gone. She wandered through rooms in the old house, trying to find some sign that Grandma could still be there somewhere. Maybe she was mixing cookie dough, or painting the living room for the third or fourth time, but everything was quiet. She went out into the garden, the smallest bit of silly hope thinking maybe she’d find Grandma out here, in her favorite place, but nothing.

Lilly finds the spot she’d sat in before she left for the first time, when she left for college. It’s not far from the bee’s little grave.

“I’ll take care of you all, I promise. Everything will be okay,” Lilly whispers to the flowers swaying around her. The flowers aren’t dying now, like they were when she first left — it’s spring and everything is freshly planted and vibrant again. She crumples and lets herself cry now.

She’s so grown up, but she’s still so young, the shade thinks to herself as she moves towards Lilly’s curled frame. It will be okay.