Natalie’s face falls. She shakes her head and scrubs her dirty palm against her pants. “Colin, you didn’t.”

“I can’t give up my theme, Natalie, that’s half the beauty of the painting.”

“You took the grave dirt?”

“Just the top layer. I put the sod back down. No one ever goes there. No one will ever know.”

The conservatory door slams. Fiberglass panels rattle like dull drums. She’ll be calling my mother. Condensation dribbles down the frosted fiberglass. Sweat runs down my back. The heat—the dampness—it feels like home. But the grave soil is pure New England. It smells of promise. Of stolen summer. Of art.

***

“You’re grinding your teeth.”

“What?”

“That’s why your jaw hurts.” Natalie pulls my hand from my jaw and wipes at the mess my fingers have left behind. Dirt. No paint. There hasn’t been paint for weeks.

“It’s not worth the stress, Colin. Just drop the class. Take an incomplete and register again in the spring, when the flowers are back.”

“I can’t fail, Natalie. That’s not an option.”

“Waiting for the right time isn’t failing. Your theme is important to you. Great. Your professor will understand. But you’re not going to get daffodils in October, Colin. Not here. Not unless you plant them yourself. That’s not how nature works.”

She’s right. Her words are skunk cabbage and nettle, but they aren’t wrong. I said it myself—it’s an ecosystem. You need the whole cycle to make life.

I miss my classes. I tell the professor I need the time to work—need the light. It’s not a lie. I head back to the graveyard, where the flower stalks have turned to dry sticks and the grass stabs at my knees and palms like little sabers—like an army guarding the treasure under the soil.

The New England winter earth is hard—hoarfrost crackles under my spade as I pry at the layers of dirt. A lattice of ice, holding everything together.

I lay the lumpy bag carefully in the trunk, nestled between the shovel and spare tire. Haul my harvest back to the long conservatory.

Finger bones rattle in terra cotta pots like dice in a cup, casting my fortunes. I drop fistfuls of rich earth over them—the same dirt they’ve known for thirty years. Long leg bones stretch along the flowerbeds. The oil at their core no longer shines, but it’s still there—a matte stain on dry meat. I can smell the life left there through the dust, like iron and old fruit. I seed my ground with these forgotten dreams, and see what grows. Pleasure or poison—it’s all art, either way.

I’m tired, and my back aches too much to bend over my canvas. And I need time. Patience, while the roots find their source.

***