In My Wife’s Vegetable Garden

     I was startled to find—among the beansand cucumbers, the tomatoes and squash,the peppers, eggplants, cabbage, and kale—my head.

               Or what seemed to be my head.It was certainly a human head, pushing upthrough the soil, taking root, the skullcapsprouting hair, facial features developing:weak chin, puffy cheeks, crooked nose,lips too thin for kissing. Definitely me.

     I casually brought it up. “The cucumbersare coming along,” I said. “I also noticeda human head.” “Oh, it’s something newI’m trying this year,” she said. “Not sureit’ll work.” I wanted her to say more, buther tone made it clear the conversationwas over.

               I didn’t like where this was going.I studied my head in the mirror. I worriedthat she wanted to replace it. Okay, it’s nota perfect head, but then what’s the point ingrowing a duplicate? Would she harvest itearly, replace my old head with a youngerone? That would mean cutting off my head,which is murder. Surely my wife is incapableof that, I reasoned. But would it be murder?Not if she were merely replacing a part.Yet, how would that work? I hadn’t heardof any head transplants. Then again, I’d notheard of heads growing in gardens either.

     Next morning while she was jogging, I stoleinto the garden with a spade, intent on digging up my head and killing it. Have you ever triedto chop off your own head? It’s not that easy,believe me, especially if it’s staring right at you,helpless, up to its neck in dirt. I tried severaltimes, but I just couldn’t do it. I’d have to letit live. Maybe it would simply die on its own.

     I discreetly monitored the growth of my head.By August, it was mature, complete with beardand glasses. My wife reaped tomatoes, beans,cucumbers, kale—but not my head. She tendedto it with care, fed its mouth by hand, brushedits teeth, tousled its hair. I didn’t know whetherto feel jealous or touched. It’d been years sinceshe’d shown such affection to me. We used totry to talk things through, fuck when we didn’twant to, if only to be able to say we still did it.Now we slept in separate rooms, like siblingsinstead of lovers.

               One night, I was wakenedby the sound of soft laughter from the garden.I went to the window. In the moonlight, I sawmy wife lying on her stomach, chin in hands,talking to my head as if to a college sweetheart.I wanted to know what she was saying to me,and what I was saying to her, but I couldn’tmake it out. I watched as they carried on,just the two of them, my wife and my head.

     I was surprised, hours later, when she cameto my bed. “You said such lovely things,”she whispered, as she slid under the sheet.“Funny, too.” “Remind me,” I said, but shewas asleep.

               This continued through Augustinto early fall—my wife coming to me at nightafter talking to my head in the garden. We madelove. I didn’t speak, fearing my words wouldn’tcompare to whatever I’d been saying out there.

     Late October brought a killing frost. My headwas dead, frozen like a pumpkin in the snow.My wife dug a hole and gently lowered me in.When she came inside, fingers red and raw,I asked if she’d try again. She didn’t answer,but silently took my head in her hands, waitingfor this skull to warm them.