"The problem is," she said as she dug at a crack in the earth with a metal implement formerly known as a tablespoon, "that he still thinks his happiness is supposed to be supplied to him by someone else."
"Well, that is how it is," he stated flatly as he tossed a green one that had seen too much sun over the fence.
"Nawsir, it idn't," was her authoritative reply. "A person can let it be that way, or they can accept responsibility for their own happiness. Then, happiness will not be given to us, but it can never be taken away by anybody, either. Our own happiness begins and ends with us." Her breath was labored from stooping over the plants in the full sun of the garden, and sometimes she farted as she bent to work a stubborn potato loose. Fortunately, he noticed neither because his hearing was bad, and hard work was to be expected. "Now, don't get me wrong," she continued. "There are plenty of joyful moments shared by others, and there are some kind deeds that are quite pleasing. But, these are responses to actions and perceptions, parcels of a whole. One's happiness is a state of mind that twists and tangles itself around the soul like a vine. You plant your own seed. You tend it as you will. Are you growing a vine that flourishes, that bears blossoms or fruit, or are you growing kudzu? For some, it's just a barren landscape. Those who have their plants delivered only sit and watch them fade and die, always awaiting the next shipment."
The combination of bending over to dig potatoes, acute acid reflux, and listening to her try to skirt around the original subject left a foul taste in his mouth. No amount of artful confusion could distract from the ugly original truth, which was the potential harm she was about to do, seemingly at a whim.
But, whims were not the stuff her thoughts & dreams, days & nights, weeks & years were made of. All was carefully considered and chosen for a greater good. One would never guess that, though, watching her amble between the rows with cow-like, stubborn grace.
"Finish him off, then," he harumphed with angry disappointment.
"I have to get these children grown," she said, mistaking "him" for "them" and disdain for grim approval. Her errors made her seem all the more calculating.
"The fact is, I'm lonely, and I miss my friend. And, I've been proven wrong so much that I don't really mind it anymore. If I can make things better, I will. Running the risk of messing up is the mountain in front of me at every turn. Odds are that I am going to wreck almost all of it. Having done so on many occasions has only taught me that the bits I am able to salvage from those wrecks are valuable, and they end up being the stuff my story is made of. Does the water break when dashed upon the rocks? Or does it go right on being water, flowing on and picking up rich sediment along the way."
She actually did not say any of this, having never been good at vocal expression, but the stooping and farting in the garden part is true. Instead, she asked how to do that when he told her the potatoes they had dug would need to be parboiled before cooking.
"I figured you for a parboiler from way back," he said, almost moving on from the previous subject.
Her own bitter gripe set in as she snapped, "Now, how was I supposed to learn stuff like that while Mama was sitting in the kitchen sink, raging at imaginary enemies and talking in sign language to invisible helicopters outside the window, and Granny told me not to practice cooking here because the home that used to be mine was where she was teaching Sis?"
Having arrived upon the scene, Granny quickly and easily described the parboiling method in less than a minute, and they all made their way across the porch and through the house, each one viewing the world through the window of their own experiences, none of them quite ready to toss out the original water.
