A picnic on blankets and chairs. His wrinkled cheeks under his chubby ones. Her hair cascading down her growing back. My toes, tiny, covered in dirt and red polish. His toes, tiny, covered in purple sparkle shine. We eat snow peas from ten feet away and listen to the bees on the broccoli and radish.
I don’t joke when I show my garden to others, introducing it as My Happy Place.
My thumb is split and splitting more yet. My nails peel and my scalp hurts. My heart is sore, my mind spins, and old fearful aches returned home to roost.
And so I look to others to bloom.
Nasturtiums calling hello.
Volunteer mystery squash shining through.
Snow peas’ purple greeting.
Snap peas white nod has passed.
Red potatoes without red petals.
Blackberries without black blossoms.
A mess of friends of all ilk.
I’ll see if I can’t tend my soil a little more. If I can’t feed my roots a little extra. If I can’t water my leaves a little softer. I’ll see tomorrow.
The pollen burst the day after both cars were washed by big and little hands alike. I couldn’t think of the last time both cars were clean at the same time.
The green and gold rained down.
And then the rains came.
Everything human coated in a gold green tint. The garden, keeping it separated.
I still tend to run light on flowers in the garden. I’m slowly learning when to sow what where. I know each year I can count on one prolific bloomer to feed the early bees and it’s a sunshine-yellow reminder to ignore the boxes we so often try and think within.
I take the leaves for scrambled eggs.
I take the tree for dinner.
I take the side shoots for quesadillas.
And then I give the bees their turn.
And they, in turn, give me next year’s start.
Because this isn’t going to last long enough to make it on a plate…
The kids won’t know what they missed when they get their “dang quesadillas.”