Time's Garden by Oonah Joslin

The garden looked like death, its paving limbs, its stone paths ribs, its ornamental vase empty as a skull. Its sinuous roots were a tangle of dessication, its dusty lavender betokened the silver pallor of lips that would never breathe another word, nor whisper love, nor spit a curse, nor pray.

The garden looked like death, its paving limbs, its stone paths ribs, its ornamental vase empty as a skull. Its sinuous roots were a tangle of dessication, its dusty lavender betokened the silver pallor of lips that would never breathe another word, nor whisper love, nor spit a curse, nor pray.

In one corner a marble angel stood solitary on a plinth. His expression at once sorrowful
and full of joy. 'This garden looks like death for time dictates all mortals walk here.’

As the deepening dusk gathered, fear took hold and I took refuge under the angel’s wings. “Look up," a soft voice whispered. The angel now stood before me, one finger pointing to the stars.

I am the gardener, he said. Look to the universe. You are never alone. Look back on time as far as the eye can see. Now farther. Let me help you.

So I looked up and found that time rushed past whoosh, like a small explosion whoosh, like a gentle breath of wind, propelling me onward.

So insignificant it was, a momentary flash in a filament of eternity.

'Twas then I saw what the angel saw. No more beginnings, no more endings. All time come and gone. A singularity.