Adam looks at his wife, sunlight brightening the tiny hairs on her skin, every inch of her body exposed and entirely safe.

The two stands side by side and face to face, naked and unashamed.

Come, says Adam, I'll show you the work.

He brings Eve to a lemon tree, perhaps.

The fruit trees want, he searches for the right words.

It's like they want to be trained. Interest on Eve's face,

but they're not, no, they're not like us, the way we're like him, but they're alive and

they seem to learn. If we cut here, he points to a branch growing back toward the trunk, touches just above

the leaf node where it changes direction, then the branch will grow outward and the canopy

will be healthier and the fruit more delicious. How do you know that? asks Eve. I'm not sure, says Adam.

And there are things Eve knows, the symbiosis achieved by planting corn, beans, and squash together,

perhaps, or the soil enriching practice of burning plants and incorporating the charred remains

into the dirt, or mulching with fallen

leaves. The husband and wife collaborate, sharing insights and observations, hunches, revelations.

Yahweh smiles. This is the work he gave them to do. Cultivate the garden.

Tend his creation.

Prune and water.

Propagate and graft, plant and harvest.

They keep the garden too.

It's a part of their charge.

This job, guarding this holy place,

warding off intruders, will intrigue those who come later. Who would enter the garden

...