Allusion: Biblical allusions/Style: Confession/Object: knitting needles
Warning: There is violence in this story.
The Garden
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been sixty-five years since my last confession.”
Ciana sat in the confessional left of the Father looking down at her hands. The right needle passed through the knot of the yarn, her hand instinctively looped the coarse wool thread around the point of the needle and in one motion she pulled the needle towards her, creating a new stitch. In. Around. Out. Over. Just like her mother had taught her all of those years ago.
“What plagues you?” He inquired.
“The death of my younger sister, Father.” She replied.
“I am deeply sorry for your loss, when did she pass?”
She paused.
“Fifty years ago, she was murdered” In. Around. Out. Over. A new stitch was formed. “We were both so young then. We still lived with our parents and our grandfather had lived with us as well. We always aimed to make him proud. When I was young, I remember, he taught me how to plant things into the ground and make them grow, to create new green life. I had a small garden behind the barn where I would plant any new seeds I could get my hands on. Over the years my little garden grew, it soon became an oasis of life in the golden dunes of wheat. He taught my sister Abby to care for life, he gave her a lamb and she cared for it, growing it to an adult sheep. Every year she would shave the sheep, form the wool into string, and knit such beautiful creations. Mother had taught her more intricate ways to use the needles, different stitches, more complex designs. I simply could not understand how to do them, my hands would not move the ways hers could.” In. Around. Out. Over. Another stitch was formed. “We went to our grandfather’s on his birthday and we all brought gifts. I had brought a basket of my best herbs and spices, the freshest vegetables, and the most delicious roots. My sister had made him a scarf, it was marvelous, and the stitching was so precise, so perfect. Grandfather immediately put it on, marveling at how soft the wool was, at how proud he was that my sister had been able to achieve such a feat. My basket on the other hand lay untouched in the kitchen.” In. Around. Out. Over. Another stitch was formed.
“Were you upset by this?” The Father probed.
“Quite. I just wanted to make him proud like she had. Year after year the cycle repeated, I had tried again to knit like my sister but my hands would only move one way. Each year I would try to make my basket more presentable, better in some way, yet each year he would marvel at how much better Abby was getting. As we grew into adulthood I resented her more and more.”
“Did you express this resentment?”
“I told my grandfather the year before he passed about my feelings and his response was merely questions, asking me why I felt so dejected, so angry, not understanding his own faults, his own shortcomings in his relationship with me. After he passed away that spring, my anger towards my sister only grew.” In. Around. Out. Over. Another stitch. “And so on the anniversary of Grandfather’s death I invited my sister into my garden, we sat at a table I had made. I told her we would share wine, talk about Grandfather and our memories of him. She had only taken two sips before the hemlock took effect. She collapsed onto the ground and her glass fell. She lay there so peacefully, the wine staining the ground by her side.”
The priest was silent. In. Around. Out. Over.
“After a month all of the plants in my garden died, every attempt to replant was a failure, I couldn’t live with myself after I saw the pain my family was put through so I left. I’ve been wandering ever since. So this father is my sin, and I do wish for forgiveness.”
She looked down at her hands awaiting his response.
In. Around. Out. Over.
