The Empty Gardenby Kevin Hansen

It was a late afternoon and the heat of the day was unbearable, especially for a mid-June day in Idaho. A 1974 Ford Pickup drove steadily down the dry powdered road with no air conditioning, the side window opened bringing in at least some air flow. The radio was silent as the pickup came to a stop and then it happened. Dust that had been lifted in the form of a trailing fog slowly engulfed the vehicle, sucking in the outside air that had once been a form of slight relief, now a hot dust filling the cabin, and with it that taste of dirt in your mouth.

The pickup quickly lurched forward trying to escape the inevitable fog. Soon the cabin was clear to breathe again but a film of dust had coated the dashboard, the instrument panel and Rachel, clinging to her bare sweaty arms. She glanced at her simple black watch with a leather band sweating around her wrist, wiped off the face and saw that it was 5:45pm

The dirt roads in rural Idaho normally take you towards two locations, a farm or ranch that could be miles from any other sign of civilization, or a location to fish or hunt. This particular road did both. Rachel lived in a small simple country house, a 3 bedroom home that had initially sat on 200 acres of land that Rachel’s father and grandfather had farmed, growing mostly corn and hay. The house had been the home for her grandparents and their only son Raymond, who in turn passed it on to his only child Rachel.

The fields alternated between corn and some sugar beets but Rachel was approaching her favorite part of the drive. She quickly rolled her windows down completely as she passed by the dark green fields of mint. The aroma filled her pickup cabin with the smell of heaven. She inhaled deeply filling her nose and then lungs with as much as she could take in. And then it was gone like passing through the drops of a single rain cloud. The plastic seat stuck to her sweaty arm as she leaned forward to roll the window back up, reminding her again of how much she wanted a new car.