A Place Apart. Maureen Lennon

years since anyone had cut the grass regularly and turned the soil in the gardens every spring. Now, the yard was ringed with trees of heaven and a few old maples that had long ago knitted a dense canopy overhead. The trees’ hundreds of unchecked suckers had braided themselves into the chain link fence, causing it to twist and bow outward in some places and to sag inward in others. Neglect and overgrowth had nearly erased the outlines of the original flowerbeds. The only thing that remained fresh and groomed was the path that ran from the gap in the fence in the back corner where the garage stood to the back door.

      But now, lit by the pale glow of the yellow street light slanting through the rusting fence, Jerome found the yard strangely enchanting. Every illuminated surface outside of the yard glistened with rain: the sidewalk, the visible corner of the garage eaves, the grey metal garbage pails standing beside the garage wall, plant foliage growing outside the ambit of the canopy, a bit of the top rail of the fence. But beneath the canopy, the yard remained a haven of dryness, a compelling high-ceilinged green grotto. Looking back and forth between the wet and the dry surfaces, indulging in the sharp contrast between the two, Jerome suddenly perceived this reverse oasis as a small miracle. Dryness in a surround of glistening wetness. Then his mind leapt. Contrast. That’s all miracles were. Simple, startling contrasts. Dead Lazarus rising to life, the sick restored to health, one fish and one loaf, then fish and loaves in abundance.

      Jerome pushed the screen door out into the fresh early morning air, descended the sagging back porch steps, and arrived, puffing with excitement, into the dead centre of this miraculous outdoor room beneath the magical green roof. His loosely tied robe had fallen open and cool air wandered deliciously into the folds of material and over his skin. He looked up. The treetops were alive with movement and sound. A party was underway. In the slumbering silence of the early morning. Another contrast. The trees were engaged in a joyous whispering conversation, every leaf and branch having something to say to its neighbour, while hundreds of gossiping water droplets slithered across smooth and rough surfaces, dropping down onto the next level to repeat what had just been said above. Now and again a little breeze wandered through the canopy, and hundreds of raindrops clattered softly to the ground. Jerome thought they sounded like hundreds of little feet, as if invisible elves or leprechauns were jumping out of the treetops and landing unseen bedside him.

      He twirled around slowly, his head thrown full back so he could see the canopy that covered him. How freeing it was just to stand there in the cool temperature beneath the protective arch of foliage. He wondered why he hadn’t ever even noticed the yard’s chapel-like quality before. Had he known, he could have come out here every time it rained, stood here in the delightful chill and filled himself up on the thrill of this secret place. His mind leapt again. Of course. How could he not have seen it until now? This domed green chapel had been created just for him. Look how it contrasted to his room: large, cool, airy, filled with the present. Listen to the whispers. How joyous! The overhead trees must be filled with birds and insects. They must be tucked in up there, alongside one another, waiting for dawn. They would be beginning to groom themselves now, rooting beneath their wings, burbling softly to one another. Life. Bustling. What he so desperately desired. It was clear now what was going on. He was meant to discover this place. This humble little outdoor grotto was God speaking to him.