Silvia Saige - The House Arrest ((install)) -

And so, on the first day of her sentence, Silvia stood at her kitchen window, coffee mug in hand, staring at the small patch of earth behind her house. It was a decent plot—about thirty feet by twenty—but compared to the sprawling community garden she’d tended for years, it felt like a prison cell.

The garden isn’t the same without you. The cucumbers are lonely. I’m sending you some seeds—the good ones, from my secret stash. Don’t tell anyone. Also, I may have accidentally thrown a rotten zucchini at that horticulturist who framed you. It felt appropriate. silvia saige - the house arrest

Hang in there. Thirty more days. You’ve got this. And so, on the first day of her

“Okay,” she said aloud to no one. “Make the best of it.” Day one, she pulled weeds. All of them. Every dandelion, every creeping Charlie, every stubborn clover that had dared to set root. By noon, her back ached and her fingernails were black crescents of dirt. The ankle monitor blinked cheerfully each time she bent over. The cucumbers are lonely

Day three, she made a list. It was a long list. Tomatoes (heirloom, of course), basil (three varieties), marigolds (for the pests), zinnias (for the bees), and a single, absurdly ambitious lemon tree in a pot. She ordered the seeds online—delivery was allowed, as long as she met the courier at the front door with a mask and a six-foot distance.