Composting Austyn Gaffney (bio) In the five years between when I left and returned to Virginia, of the fifteen jobs I held, at least a third involved petals. Every time I stripped a zinnia of its leaves, the smell of milky chlorophyll and compost slipped me back to that first fall when I was twenty-one, an intern at a flower farm in a shallow valley east of Shenandoah. In that era, I woke to cold in an old farmhouse. It was haunted though I only heard creaks and never moans. Beyond my bedroom window, fog settled into the drainage slopes between hoop houses, in the roots of oak trees and maple trees and elm trees, as a blanket over the straight beds of blooms. I'd stretch up from my pillow and put my socked feet onto a sloping wood floor. The house was tilted atop a foundation laid in 1742. I walked down a back staircase. I shuffled into the living room, a space of musty rugs and armchairs, vases of fresh and decaying flowers, the smell of propane from the fake stack of wood in the stone fireplace. The kitchen on the other side of the doorway had a string of lights across the four-tiered windowpanes. They pointed toward the coffeepot. Smells are watch-towers for memories: propane, caffeine, chlorophyll. The last time I woke up in the farmhouse, it was next to a man who I dragged there when his job as a park ranger in Kentucky ended. We had been dating for a few months, and we had dated a few times before. I followed him through my four years of college like a weak shadow, like one closing in on dusk. He was perpetually tanned, a speckled piece of amber, with thick eyebrows that furrowed together with questions and opened wide when he laughed. He had a sweet mouth and calloused hands. He wore the same t-shirts from Goodwill the four years I knew him, and when he met my parents it was in a Christmas sweater of knitted cats. His uniform was flannels and baggy jeans and sandals, and he was convinced that if he swore off deodorant his armpits would stop smelling. He was musky. I was very young, and I loved him as faithfully as I loved that house. [End Page 152] Now, five years later, I pull up to the farmhouse on a clear night in May, after an eight-hour drive from my home in Kentucky. I push open the screen door to the kitchen. Its smell pummels me. It contains memories so pungent that they open like a spigot. It is half a decade since I woke to make oatmeal in this yellow room, since I heard the rooster announce dawn. I used to spend evenings chasing that old rooster at twilight with just the light of my headlamp to get it in its coop. I raged that as I protected him from foxes or coyotes, he threatened me with menacing spurs four inches long. But I spent much of my time that fall chasing things that didn't want to be caught. I'm told the rooster died years ago. It's a comfort that some things are the same. My daily retreat is still the outdoor shower. Its wooden planks of sunken pine smell like my childhood spent sunbathing on docks over cold lakes. A smell dim and heady and almost molding. It's the same smell in the bushes of viburnum or the trees of styrax—something decomposing in the weight of its sweetness. This humid decay is one of my favorite smells, the ephemeral space between fragrance and rot. ________ This time, instead of early fall it is early summer. The zinnias are still in their seed trays. I start work by watering the greenhouse. I pinch the Oklahoma Sunrise, already shooting up peach buds. The hose showers over them. I worry about them blooming too early, miniature in a too small cell. They are beginning to blossom tight and tiny like the choked shape of a bonsai tree. I too feel oddly small my first few days on the farm. It...