ADYNATON

I arrived at the library’s garden bright and early the next morning because it was a 

Saturday and, frankly, I didn’t have anything better to do. The sun was just beginning to 

peek over the trees, and its light cast yellow hues across the leaves, already glistening 

with the morning’s dew. The atmosphere was uncharacteristically serene. Well, 

compared to the hustle and bustle of the outside world, at least. Forgoing the sunrise – a 

collage of pastel pinks and purples and Creamsicle oranges splayed across the sky; a 

fusion of warm colors spattering the horizon – I turned my attention to the work-in-

progress of a flowerbed in front of me. My knees, seemingly always covered in a thin 

layer of dirt, met the earth yet again when I knelt down in front of the bed of soil and set 

the tray of flower seedlings beside me.

 

A gust of muggy air swept strands of carrot-colored hair into my eyes, and I 

unconsciously moved to tuck my hair behind my ears. As soon as my fingers began 

sifting through my hair, weaving specks of dirt into my frizzy curls, I knew washing my 

hands earlier had been pointless. My mother had always said dirt beneath the nails was a sign of true dedication.

 

 “You can’t be afraid to get your hands dirty, Charlie,” she’d say whenever even 

the slightest hint of a whine escaped me, whether regarding the messy state of my hands, 

or the merciless sun that beat down on our backs while we worked the garden. “You’ll 

never make it through life without a bit of dirt under your nails.”

 

I’d look over at her to scowl at her words of so-called wisdom, squinting against 

the sun’s bright rays, and instead find a grin on her face. I could still remember it, clear as 

day: wrinkles in the corners of her eyes when she laughed, dimples in her cheeks when 

she smiled, freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose, only visible after hours in the 

sun. They were similar to mine. But hers stopped at her cheeks while mine carried on, 

across my shoulders, down my back. I complained about them frequently. The only way 

she ever got me to shut up about the matter was by telling me that, in another day, in 

another life, they were angel kisses.

 

She always had a way of making things sound prettier than they actually were.

 

The sun was high in the sky now, and the sweltering summer heat beat down on 

my back. In lieu of my sunglasses, I used my hand as a visor against the dazzling rays 

and, as soon as my fingers brushed against my forehead, I felt a smudge of dirt bloom 

across my skin. Another gust of wind disturbed the otherwise stiflingly humid air. I 

paused, waited.

 

It was almost disconcerting to realize it no longer bothered me. Not like it once did, at least. Instead of wiping my dirt-stained palms off on my shorts, I picked up my gardening shovel. I got to work.