by The Cowl Editor on November 30, 2018


by Gabriela Baron ’20

Every morning I visit your home, the garden. My watering can hovers over your head, the refreshing droplets drip down your neck. I pat down your bed, my hands sinking into the soil. You are my patient and I, your caretaker. I make sure that you’re healthy, that your vibrant hue doesn’t pale.


Daily stress and worries are embossed on each page of my planner. I scribble my black sharpie over each item but the curved letters peek through, taunting me with their permanence. I squeeze three drops of your essential oil into my diffuser. You swim leisurely in the shallow water bath. When I take in your calming perfume my shoulders relax, my breathing slows, and I can finally rest my bloodshot eyes. Your soothing energy surrounds me, diffusing the sparks of my anxiety. Your moisture tames the flame.


Our skin is rough and parched. My body shakes from the frigid air. I prepare my ingredients: two pieces of woven cloth, dried jasmine rice, and your frosted hair. With a needle and thread, I stitch my homemade heating pad together. It twists and molds around my body, melting into the fibers of my skin. I burrow deep into my bed and place the microwaved creation in between my arms, hoping to capture the familiar fragrance. I curl my back, my body like a bulb soaking in your warm sunshine. I am your patient and you, my caretaker.


…but where will you be in the spring? Will I find you in the Royal Alcázar of Seville? Should I look for you in the Boboli gardens of Florence? During high tea in London? Baked inside the puff pastries of Paris? Or shall I take a train to L’Occitane? And if I don’t find you, will you still recognize me?