August came.
The tomatoes ripened faster than Maya could pick them. She made sauce. She made salsa. She gave bags of tomatoes to the neighbors.
The morning glories climbed the brick walls. Blue and purple and white. They bloomed at dawn and closed by noon.
Leo worked. The law firm promoted him. He had his own office now. A small room with a window that faced a brick wall.
"It's not much," he said.
"It's yours."
"I'm helping people."
"That's what matters."
He sat on the floor of the living room. The painting stared down at him.
"I want to paint again," he said.
"Then paint."
"I don't have time."
"Make time."
He looked at her. "You sound like Mrs. Patterson."
"I learned from the best."
---
September came.
The basil turned brown. The morning glories dropped their seeds. The tomatoes slowed.
Maya cleared the garden. She turned the soil. She covered it with a tarp.
The courtyard looked empty. Barren. The broken birdbath stood in the corner.
Leo came down. He stood next to her.
"It'll grow back," he said.
"In the spring."
"In the spring."
They went upstairs. The apartment was quiet. The string lights were dark.
"I've been thinking about my mother," Maya said.
"What about her?"
"She's not getting any younger. She's alone. She works too much."
"Do you want her to move here?"
Maya sat on the floor. "I don't know."
"Then think about it."
"I've been thinking about it for months."
"Then decide."
She looked at him. "You're not helpful."
"I'm not trying to be."
---
October came.
The first frost killed the remaining morning glories. The courtyard was brown and grey.
Maya spent her days in the studio. She drew the garden from memory. The tomatoes. The basil. The blue and purple flowers.
She drew Mrs. Patterson. The kitchen table. The folding chairs. The game show on the television.
She drew the old building. The front door. The mailboxes. The stairs. The roof. The water tank. The painted eye.
Leo came home one evening to find her asleep at the desk. The desk lamp was still on. The pencil was on the floor.
He picked up the pencil. He looked at the drawings.
She had drawn him. His hands. His eyes. His face.
He touched the page gently.
"Maya," he said.
She woke up. "What time is it?"
"Late. Come to bed."
She stood up. Her back ached. Her neck ached.
"I drew you again," she said.
"I saw."
"You're still moving too much."
"I'll try to be still."
She took his hand. They went to the bedroom.
---
November came.
The first snow fell on a Sunday morning. Maya stood at the window, watching the flakes drift down. The courtyard was white. The tarp was buried. The broken birdbath looked like a small mountain.
Leo came up behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist.
"We made it," he said.
"Made what?"
"A year. Married. In this apartment. In this life."
She leaned back against his chest. "It doesn't feel like a year."
"What does it feel like?"
"A lifetime."
He kissed her neck. "Good."
---
December came.
The holidays. Leo's office closed for a week. They stayed in the apartment. They cooked. They drew. They slept.
On Christmas Eve, Maya called her mother.
"Are you alone?" Maya asked.
"Yes."
"Come to Brooklyn. For New Year's."
A pause. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
Another pause. "I'll take the bus."
"Send me the arrival time. I'll pick you up."
"Okay."
"Mom."
"Yeah."
"I love you."
"I love you too."
---
Her mother arrived on December 30th.
The bus was late. Maya waited in the cold for an hour. The terminal was crowded. People slept on benches. A child cried.
Then her mother came down the stairs. A duffel bag. A purse. A tired smile.
"Hi, Mom."
"Hi, baby."
They hugged. Her mother was thinner than before. Her hair was grey at the temples.
"You look old," Maya said.
"You look tired."
"Same thing."
Her mother laughed. "You're still stubborn."
"I learned from you."
---
They spent New Year's Eve in the apartment.
Marco came. Jasmine came. David came. Mr. Chen was in Florida – he sent a card. Vanessa came with a bottle of champagne.
The apartment was crowded. The string lights were on. The painting stared down at them.
At midnight, they stood on the roof. The new roof. The one on Crown Street.
The city spread out below them. Lights. Sirens. The distant sound of fireworks.
"Happy new year," Leo said.
"Happy new year."
"Any resolutions?"
"To draw more. To worry less." She looked at him. "To love you more."
"You already love me enough."
"No. There's always more."
He kissed her. The fireworks exploded. The city cheered.
---
January came.
The snow melted. The ice on the fire escape turned to water. The courtyard was a muddy mess.
Maya went outside. She pulled back the tarp. The soil was wet. Dark. Ready.
She knelt in the mud. She turned the dirt with her hands. The cold seeped through her gloves.
Leo came down. He knelt next to her.
"Seeds?" he asked.
"Seeds."
They planted. Tomatoes. Basil. Morning glories.
The same as before.
---
February came.
The shoots appeared. Small green fingers pushing through the dirt.
Maya knelt in the courtyard every morning. She watered. She weeded. She watched.
Leo worked. The law firm kept him busy. Tenant rights. Eviction defense.
He came home exhausted. He sat on the floor of the living room. He stared at the painting on the wall.
"You're going to wear yourself out," Maya said.
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're tired."
"I'm always tired."
She sat next to him. "Then rest."
"I can't. There's too much to do."
She took his hand. "The work will always be there. The people will always need help. But you only have one body."
He looked at her. "You sound like Mrs. Patterson."
"I learned from the best."
He leaned his head on her shoulder. "I'll rest. Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow."
---
March came.
The morning glories climbed the brick walls. The tomatoes reached for the sky. The basil spread across the soil.
Maya sat in the courtyard, drawing. The same plants, different angles. The way the light changed. The way the shadows moved.
Her mother called.
"I'm coming to visit," her mother said. "Next week."
"Again?"
"You don't want me?"
"I didn't say that."
"Then I'm coming."
The line went dead.
Maya looked at the garden. The morning glories were blooming. Blue and purple and white.
"Mrs. Patterson," she said, "help me."
The wind blew. The flowers swayed.
No answer. But she felt something. A warmth in her chest.
She picked up her pencil. She drew.