Eden

Abstract

Eden Evan J. Massey (bio) “This isn’t my name,” I said. The Venti Caramel Macchiato and Impossible Sausage Sandwich I’d ordered were addressed to someone named Eden. “Close enough,” the barista replied. “Just take it.” I’ve become accustomed to people struggling with my name; how someone can fumble over four simple letters still ba”es me. I’m usually met with renditions such as Devin, Eric, Edwin, Edmund, Even, or Evans, with an “s,” as if there were two of me—a clone fashioned from my rib. Anyway, maybe the barista didn’t hear me over the bustling of possible descendants from Eden’s exiles, ordering their forbidden cold brews and frappuccinos. And, actually—to keep it real with you—I was quite flattered by the mistake; I didn’t mind being briefly labeled after the biblical garden. We all know the story. Adam. Eve. Serpent and fruit. Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. Expulsion. But I’d read that the origin of the word “Eden” derives from various sources; the Persian heden meaning garden, or it may be linked to the Hebrew word for pleasure, delight, or happiness. Scholars claim that the physical garden itself was inspired by sundry estates; the Garden of the Hesperides, the home of golden apples defended by a dragon; the Sumerian city of Dilmun, which was replete with saccharine water and where no one became ill or old. I forget how old I was when I last visited a garden. It was a botanical garden. Yes, there was a girl involved; a girl I’d met—whose name escapes me—on Bumble. The garden was her idea. There was nothing miraculous about our encounter, nothing divine. I only recall her sniffing flowers as married couples posed for photographs under trees positioned in the fields. I wish I could have asked her at that moment these questions: What if God created online dating? What if Eve never swiped right on Adam, or vice versa? Are we all versions of Adam and Eve failing to rewrite Genesis? I wonder what God thought as I’d bend down and bring my nose closer to the stigma of flowers in Lowe’s Lawn & Garden section, where I got paid $13.50 an hour—what I considered good money then—to clock in early and water the plants with a hose that could spume an entire aisle, the drizzle making the plants dazzle, brilliant droplets pearling on every petal. Hours later, little old white ladies would inquire about which flowers and plants would look good in their gardens, and, for some reason, I was convinced their gardens were bigger than my mother’s apartment. I’d stand there pondering a response while imagining flower beds full of blooms, extending for yards and yards, something that would make a florist feel efflorescent ecstasy. I’d left Starbucks. I sat by the window in a Portuguese coffee shop where the attendant told me to hide my water bottle because the owner doesn’t allow outside drinks in the cafe. Sunlight splashed through the window and for [End Page 76] a second I believed that the rays produced more words from my fingers. I was rooted to the chair, reading an Ebook on ancient botany. Marveling at a sketch of a mandrake plant, which was said to have magical powers, and was the main ingredient in the sleep elixir of Shakespeare’s Cleopatra. She exclaims, “Give me to drink mandragora. That I might sleep out this great gap of time my Antony is away.” When disturbed, mandrakes screamed so loud it could kill a human. So, in order to dislodge the plant from the dirt, audacious botanists tied a rope around a dog’s neck and then around the root in order for the dog to prise the plant from the ground. Sometimes—I regret to inform you—the dog died from the screams as the mandrake was being ripped from the maternal arms of Mother Earth. I feel for the mandrake. I feel for every defenseless and beautiful thing facing destruction for the benefit of others. My mother held me after I’d fallen off of my...