A birth day.

We pick some days to mark. We choose wedding dates to become anniversaries. We choose Thanksgiving, or not. Christmas or Hanukkah or Kwanzaa or Yule or not.

And some days choose us. A grandfather dies on a mother’s birthday. A cousin shares his birthday with the day a best friend miraculously survives.

Today, this jovial fun-filled mischievous holiday was the day my son chose for his birthday and boy, did he hit the nail on the head.

“Mama, dere’s a flower in dere.”

– Yes, love. And we’ll leave it for the bees, won’t we?

“I yam, mama. I yam leaving it for da bees. The bees is hungry. And they make us food! Is it snyacktiem?”

Advertisements

Sun in the sun.

I’ve missed time outside. Missed may be too gentle of a word. Craved? Yearned? Viscerally required..

With the more potent creatures of energy in this house discovering, pounding upon, and vocally barraging any boundary set before them… bedtime has fallen.

And with it, any hope at a regular visit to the garden in the evenings. Even with the garden a mere fifteen feet from the back door, it may seem miles these days.

Such that a large Black Prince splits one day and mildews in its splits the next.

I have my seeds for the next solstice now at least.

The okra is coming in slowly. Curious. Not enough at once for even a side dish. Perhaps the ten or so plants will gain momentum and I’ll rue this day soon enough.

A melon has appeared in the green beans. Did I plant that? This year? Or was it last?

The zinnias are, finally, holding true to promises of summer blooms. I hope the fun pops of pink and orange will continue as the heat climbs higher. The nasturtiums are hanging on, the troopers.

The corn lost the battle with gravity after the second flattening. The storm two weeks back took out the corn, half the tomatoes, and both windshields on my car (via tree.)

I should really remove it but have to move the beautifully composted compost out of the cooked pile first and… time in the garden is left wanting.

So happy solstice, y’all. From one still sunlit corner of the world, brightened ever more my a smaller sun mimic, to yours. May the ride down the backside of this year’s coaster be joyful, healthful, and grateful.

Kumquat

Five years hence, I felt a swell of joy. Anticipation. Amplification.

Five weeks in, cessation.

Five weeks more, awareness.

Five weeks further, separation.

I gathered seeds that weekend, to memorialize.

I’ve sown them each memorial weekend since.

They, as their motive, didn’t take.

Until now.

I still, mostly, don’t say.

I still, mostly, can’t stand.

So I still, mostly, let sway.