What the Water Knows

The spinach came from the garden they'd planted together, three years ago when everything still felt possible. Elena stood at the sink, washing the dirt from the leaves, watching the water swirl dark and green down the drain. Marcus had been the one who wanted the garden. He'd said it was about growing things, putting down roots. But the roots had rotted while he was still alive, and now she was harvesting alone.

Barnaby, Marcus's golden retriever, pressed his warm weight against her leg. The dog had stopped waiting by the door six months ago, but he still sought her out in the kitchen, sensing something she couldn't name. Elena rested her hand on his head, her palm against the coarse fur that smelled of rain and old age. They were both aging in this house, moving through rooms that felt too large, too full of things Marcus had chosen.

She'd started swimming again — dawn laps at the YMCA, sliding into the chlorine-smelling water before her thoughts could catch up. There was something about being submerged, the world muffled and distant, that allowed her to surface gasping, feeling something like peace. Her therapist called it healthy coping. Elena called it the only hour she didn't want to scream.

The vegetables boiled on the stove. She should call Sarah, invite her over. Sarah had been suggesting she get out more, meet people, try online dating. "You're forty-two, Elena, not dead." But dating required wanting someone to touch her again, and she wasn't sure she remembered how.

Barnaby whined, and she realized she'd been standing still too long, steam rising from the pot. She turned off the burner, drained the spinach, watched it wilt in the colander. Everything withered eventually. The trick was finding something new to grow in the empty space.

Tomorrow she'd sign up for that pottery class. Maybe. For now, she filled Barnaby's bowl, then her own, and ate standing at the counter, watching the sun rise over the garden that would need planting soon, whether she was ready or not.