April came.
The snow melted. The trees bloomed. The sky turned blue.
Maya stood at the window of the studio, looking at the courtyard below. A patch of dirt. A few weeds. A broken birdbath.
"I want to plant a garden," she said.
Leo looked up from his sketchbook. "Where?"
"There. In the courtyard."
"That's not your courtyard. It belongs to the building."
"I'll ask the landlord."
The landlord was a man named Mr. Goldstein. He was seventy-three years old and owned three buildings in Crown Heights. He wore cardigans and smelled of cigar smoke.
"A garden?" he said. "In the courtyard?"
"Yes."
"It's just dirt. No one uses it."
"Then you won't mind if I do."
Mr. Goldstein looked at her for a long moment. Then he shrugged. "Fine. But you pay for the plants."
"I will."
---
Maya went to the hardware store on Nostrand.
She bought soil. Seeds. A trowel. A watering can.
She spent the afternoon in the courtyard, digging. The dirt was hard. The weeds were stubborn. Her hands blistered.
Leo came down to help. He brought gloves.
"You're going to hurt yourself," he said.
"Probably."
He knelt next to her. They pulled weeds together.
By the end of the day, the patch was clear. The soil was turned. The seeds were planted.
Tomatoes. Basil. The same as before.
Maya sat on the ground. Her jeans were dirty. Her hands were sore.
"It's not the roof," she said.
"Nothing is."
"But it's something."
"It's something."
---
May passed.
The seeds sprouted. The tomatoes grew. The basil turned green.
Maya spent her mornings in the courtyard, watering, weeding, watching.
She drew the garden. The new one. The small one. The one in the dirt with the broken birdbath.
She drew Leo kneeling in the soil, his hands dirty, his face tired.
She drew the building – the new building, the one on Crown Street. The windows. The fire escape. The front door.
She filled sketchbooks. Page after page.
---
On June 1st, the cash-for-keys payments arrived.
Maya looked at the check. Sixty thousand dollars. Made out to her name.
She deposited it in the bank. The teller asked if she wanted to open a savings account.
"No," Maya said. "I want to keep it in checking."
The teller nodded. She didn't ask why.
Leo deposited his check too. They stood on the sidewalk outside the bank.
"Sixty thousand dollars," he said.
"It's not nothing."
"It's not everything."
She took his hand. "It's enough."
---
On June 15th, the demolition began.
Maya didn't go to watch. She stayed in the studio. She drew.
She drew the old building from memory. The front door. The mailboxes. The stairs. The roof. The water tank. The painted eye.
She drew Mrs. Patterson's apartment. The kitchen table. The folding chairs. The game show on the television.
She drew the garden. The buckets. The stakes. The tomatoes. The basil.
She drew until her hand cramped. Then she drew some more.
Leo came home that evening. He sat on the floor of the studio.
"It's gone," he said.
"The building?"
"Yes."
Maya set down her pencil. "I know."
"Are you sad?"
"Yes."
"Me too."
They sat in silence. The city hummed. The desk lamp flickered.
"Maya."
"Yeah."
"We're going to be okay."
"How do you know?"
"Because we have each other. And we have the garden. And we have the memories."
She looked at the drawings on the desk. The old building. The roof. The water tank.
"That's not nothing," she said.
"No. It's not."
---
That night, Maya dreamed of Mrs. Patterson.
The old woman was sitting on the milk crate, on the roof. The garden was full. The tomatoes were red. The basil was green.
"Come sit with me," Mrs. Patterson said.
Maya sat next to her.
"The garden is beautiful," Maya said.
"It's always been beautiful. You just couldn't see it."
"Why not?"
"Because you were too busy worrying."
Mrs. Patterson took her hand. Her fingers were warm.
"I miss you," Maya said.
"I miss you too. But I'm not gone. I'm in the garden. I'm in the building. I'm in you."
Maya woke up.
The room was dark. Leo was asleep next to her.
She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. No crack. No river. Just white paint.
She closed her eyes.