Breath

He woke to a scent sweet and dense as a ripe peach crushed in the sun — the scent of all flowers at once. He drew it into himself and was filled with meaning.

He opened his eyes. Above him hung a branch of an apple tree, strewn with white-and-pink blossom. He reached out, and his fingertips touched the very tenderness of the bloom. The petals were cool, velvet-soft.

“Awake?” asked the Voice. Not from above, not from below — from within the scent itself, from the very coolness of the petals.

“Yes,” he breathed. And that was his first breath.

He sat up. Before him lay the garden. It was a state of being. Every leaf, every stone, every rivulet knew him. And he knew them. Knew which tree loved moisture and which loved sun. The knowledge lived within him: in his palms, in the soles of his feet, in the back that leaned against the trunk.

He rose and went to a young shoot of grapevine. It trailed along the ground, helpless. He took it in his hands — thin, green, pulsing with sap. He looked at a heap of stones piled nearby.

“It needs support,” he said aloud. Simply sharing what he saw.

“And what will you do?” the Voice asked. There was interest in it. Play.

He smiled. Went to the stones. Chose one — flat, and warm from the sun. Carried it over, drove it into the earth beside the shoot. Then took another. And another.

He was not building — he was playing with blocks. His hands worked lightly. The stones settled one upon another as though they had been waiting for this moment. He could feel the vine reaching for the support, its tendrils searching for something to catch hold of. He adjusted one stone — and the vine found it at once and wound around it.