****This continues a writing experiment of blogging an apocalyptic serial story. click HERE to read the introduction of The Last Testament of Maddie Rae Johnson...
Part One:
I woke up this morning to the songs of birds.Beyond the laced windows peeked blue sky and bright sun. A new day begun. Coffee brewed, shoes slipped on feet, I went outside, to the back, where my flowers that I've loved and tended welcomed me with blooms of red and fire orange. With warm coffee in hand, I stepped slowly along the rock path that wound through my garden like a little girl's unraveled ribbon. Snapdragons bulged with purple blossoms hinting at the promise of blossoms stood at attention as I inspected. The daisies, phlox and blue delphinium all vibrant with indication that their world was well. I turned past the willow tree, the one we planted the first year we moved here. What year was that? The tree was now nearly as tall as the highest pitch of the house. Graceful boughs danced in the morning breeze like windblown hair. All was well.
My secret rose garden rested beyond the willow tree, hidden behind a stone wall that was already on the property. He wanted to tear it down, said it didn't make sense where it was, that it made for awkward gardening. I said no. We have to preserve it. The wall having been here since the year the house was built nearly a hundred years ago. Looked to have once been a part of another structure. The beginning of a small cottage perhaps? Or a stable? Who knew? But the weathered stone with it's swirling hues of browns and greys and green velvet moss cushioned in between the crevices made for a work of art to remain collaged in the landscape. Not removed. And so, one rainy Saturday in the first autumn we moved here, I planted three rose bushes. I can still remember the drizzle misting my face as I dug the holes, musty smells of rain and dirt filling me like whiskey and smoke. I had never gardened before, never had a garden in all my life, but there I began, a secret rose garden planted and a gardener born as the Creator baptized me with the water of heaven.
The roses, my secret roses, a wooden chair, a small table, my place of quiet and wonder when I needed solitude from modern living. How many times did I push past open the screen door bellowing to my chaotic household, I am going to the roses. Leave me be!
The chair, the table, the roses which now numbered well past three, blazed with optimism for this day and the days ahead. I stared, hypnotized by the colors like a kaleidoscope, remembering the carefree choices of reds, yellows and oranges. Oh how I loved the oranges. They had become my favorite. I became lost in my mind as I imagined the end of these reds, yellows and oranges. As I imagined the end of my family and friends...the end of him and of me.
How does one manage certain knowledge of the end of days for all? Six weeks. That's the forecast. Is it true? Perhaps it's a mistake. Perhaps all the scientists have it wrong. They've had it wrong before. We used to think the world was flat. Maybe we're wrong again. Maybe the storm won't come this way. How can humankind predict it's own funeral with such insistence?
The flowers, cheerful and oblivious, began to seem false. A facade of life as everything that had meaning for me was now confronted with fatalistic taunting challenges of Fight to the death.
"The kids are awake. They're asking for you," he said as the orange roses pleaded with me to keep hope.
I'm coming, I said, turning from my secret walled garden to face the countdown of this day with my family and not flowers. Earth may be our mother, I bitterly thought as I reentered the house, but the sky is our father and he is coming home to kill us.
