He could have given me a lecture on quantum physics with more success of actually getting through. But this... this talk about... life after death?!!! Nonsense! How can something dead be made alive again?!!!
We sit down on the edge of the garden and I bury my bare feet into the soft, warm, wet dirt.
Why did you do this? I ask, staring intently at my disappearing toes. Why wouldn't you let us go to Home Depot and get some already blooming flowers?!! What's so wrong about that???
It sounds like you already have answers to all your questions, he replies gently.
Of course I don'.... I stop mid-sentence, catching myself before I dug myself deeper. His raised eyebrows reveal more enjoyment in this conversation than I care to acknowledge.
I have no idea how you are doing this, but sometimes I feel like you know my thoughts before even I know them! I feel both angry and disarmed at the same time. This wasn't the first time I felt utterly unnerved in his presence. The look in his eyes reveals neither gloating nor a trace of superiority. I turn back to my buried toes, sinking deeper into the dirt.
Fine! I continue, surprising myself with a torrent bubbling up from somewhere deep inside.
If that's what you want, that's what you get. I think you derive some warped sense of pleasure out of inflicting senseless pain and suffering on innocent, unsuspecting victims.
I keep my eyes glued to my sunken feet, toes squinched tightly. I pause, half expecting a lightening to strike me out of the clear-blue sky, the other half wanting him to defend himself, to bring counterarguments to my honest brutality. I hear neither thunder and lightening nor a word from him.
What is so morally superior about subjecting an amateur gardener to the torture of growing vegetables and flowers from seeds? And what is so miraculous about that?
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