Seeds in the Ash

The baseball game droned on the television, another loss for a team that had forgotten how to win. David watched without seeing, his father's old cap pulled low over his eyes. The brim was frayed now, sweat-stained from twenty years of yard work and weekend games he'd no longer had the energy for.

"She's not coming back, you know."

Elena's voice from the doorway. She held a papaya, its skin suddenly vibrant against the gray walls of their living room.

David didn't turn away from the screen. "I know."

"Then why are you still wearing your father's hat? Why are you watching baseball alone at three in the morning?"

She set the fruit on the coffee table, next to his untouched whiskey. It felt like an accusation.

"Because it's familiar," he said finally. "Because some things don't change."

"But we did." Elena touched his shoulder, her fingers tentative. "We're supposed to be trying."

Barnaby, their aging golden retriever, lifted his head from the carpet and whined. The dog had stopped eating three days ago, when the silence between them had grown too thick even for comfort.

David reached down, scratching behind Barnaby's ears. The dog's coat was thinning now, his muzzle white. Like David's father's had been. Like everything good, eventually.

"Remember when we first got him?" Elena asked, sitting beside him. "That summer you were still playing in that rec league, the one with the terrible orange uniforms."

"We lost every game that season," David said.

"But you bought him afterwards. To celebrate. Or commiserate."

"Both." He smiled faintly. "He was this terrified, shivering thing. We wrapped him in your old jersey."

Elena sliced the papaya, the knife making precise cuts. The scent filled the room—sweet, musky, impossibly alive. She held out a piece.

David hesitated, then took it. The flesh was soft against his tongue, foreign and familiar all at once.

"Your father used to grow these," Elena said quietly. "In that garden behind the garage."

"I'd forgotten."

"You told me, after the funeral. How he'd plant seeds from the grocery store fruit, even though everyone said they'd never take. But they did. Every spring."

David looked at the papaya in his hand, really looked at it. The black seeds scattered through orange flesh. Life continuing in the midst of death.

"I haven't been fair to you," he said. "To us."

Barnaby stirred, suddenly interested. David fed him a piece of fruit, and for the first time in days, the dog ate.

"Start again tomorrow," Elena said, leaning against him. "Start small."

Outside, the stadium crowd roared. Someone had hit a home run. David reached for his whiskey, then set it down untouched.

"Tomorrow," he agreed. "We'll start with the garden."