The Domiciles Project



The works below are presented as they have been submitted by the artists. We do not censor the submissions, but ask participants to be mindful that content will be viewed by people of all ages. Inappropriate material will be removed.

He wasn’t always so meticulous, okay, anal enough to use scissors for God’s sake but since Judy died the garden had become his obsession. He couldn’t bear the thought of being trapped indoors with her glasses, her notebooks she had filled piled high onto the nightstand and where her bathrobe still dangled on its hook in the bathroom. Now when he put his hands in the soil to feed the impatience and petunias he felt safe—their colors channeled his grief. Judy loved color and they had argued for years about beige sofas or camel cushions. Out here he became an expert gardener, tiller of all things tangible. Here kneeling on the soft grass, he was lost but not lonely. Not once when he donned his straw hat had he ever felt lonely.

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