by Christy Hartman

The first vine appeared in her avocado-green fridge, grazing Muriel’s palm as she reached for the eggs. It snaked through cooling coils and electric fans, past a limp, forgotten carrot, and a plate of leftover meatloaf. Leaves curled tight around the carton of whole milk she used for her morning tea.

Muriel padded to George’s greenhouse in the back garden. Her shaky legs, that had carried her through three marathons a lifetime ago, balanced on her husband’s step stool. She plucked the smallest pruning shears from a table sagging under heirloom tomatoes and runner bean pots. Sprawling vines clung to the walls and ceiling; they pooled on the floor, creating a blanket of fat legumes and plump fruit. She had beamed with pride last year watching George triumphantly hold one of his Comparis, decorated with a blue ribbon. They’d celebrated by eating the champion between thick slices of sourdough, slathered with mayonnaise, salt, and black pepper.

Back in her cozy kitchen, Muriel snipped the milk free. She pruned back vines that bound the wooden chairs to the kitchen table. Muriel walked her fingers across the polished oak until they reached the indent carved by 23,143 days of George’s resting coffee mug. She closed her eyes and traced the grooved wood. Her fingertip moved around and around until a soft tendril snaked between her arthritic fingers, wrapping each one loosely with the small leaves of new growth. Muriel drained her teacup, wiped the damp from her laugh-lined eyes and reached for the shears to release her captive hand.

The wisteria invaded her living room a week later. Muriel had settled onto the Chesterfield to watch Days of Our Lives. Once George had retired, permanently closing their landscaping business, he’d sat with her, peering at the soap opera over the rim of his bifocals. She would stifle a giggle as he sucked in air at each devious plot twist.

Muriel’s nose tingled. Katherine was about to discover that her husband’s secret twin brother had been impersonating him. The television crackled, flickered and went black. The smell of charred plants filled the room. Muriel gathered her aching bones and shuffled to the old machine. Vines had burrowed through the speakers, winding around cathode-tubes and emerging from the volume and channel knobs. Muriel pulled at the plant, breaking off pieces, but the television remained dark.

Weeks of snipping and pruning to keep the wisteria at bay left Muriel exhausted. This house had been out of their budget when they bought it as newlyweds. George resolved to figure out the finances as soon as he heard his bride squeal at her first glimpse of wisteria climbing the east side of the house. He taught her how damaging the pretty flowering vines could be if left unchecked, but he promised to always keep them under control.

A spicy floral scent crept down the stairs and Muriel, entranced, followed it back up to their bedroom. She sat on the edge of their double bed. George had spent their first anniversary painting their bedroom walls the shade Muriel had picked to perfectly match the lavender-coloured clusters framing the window. That same window was now completely obscured by the climbing wisteria. Muriel slid the glass up and plunged her hands into the leaves, spreading the vines apart to look down at the narrow lane, iron gate, pristine lawn, and the front porch where George had taken his final breath. For hours she’d thought he’d just fallen asleep in the rocking chair.

When her gnarled fingers could no longer hold the shears, Muriel retreated to her library. Pushing all her weight against the door, she squeezed herself through. The sun streamed between the lilac curtains, illuminating vines winding around the books. Muriel had been raised in a postage-stamp apartment with a gaggle of siblings. A house of her own was a dream. When she’d confessed that she didn’t want children, George spent a month building floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a window seat for Muriel to read Jane Austen, pen her novels, and admire her husband toiling in his beloved garden.

She waded through thigh-high foliage to the cushioned bench. She watched the plants grow until George’s prized garden was bathed in the pink-orange glow of golden hour. Wisteria danced in the breeze; every imaginable shade of purple, blue and lavender twirled somersaults toward the window, toward Muriel. She laid her head on a pillow of tiny mauve buds letting exhaustion settle into her bones like the last kiss of sun before nightfall. Muriel invited the vines to wind gently around her, tendrils tickling her ears, teasing her nose and mouth. She surrendered to the wisteria and whispered her gratitude. The vines encircled her shoulders and waist, as comforting and familiar as George’s embrace.

Photo by Aki Nakazawa on Unsplash