When under stress, my mother and I are gardeners. On the morning (this morning) when our neighbour of forever was visited by fire and ambulance trucks, she talked about planting the last patch of garden as I hovered like a Victorian ghost at the front porch, alternately hugging my knees and dead-heading petunias.
My feet are still freezing, though I've moved inside. My parents, a house over and waiting for our neighbour to emerge, were talking with the EMS personnel and told me to go in. To wait (to not hover in my nightgown and a translucent cardigan in the public eye; they are still my parents) - but I obey only partially, feet wandering through the house and out the backdoor, still barefoot, wandering a circuit of my mother's garden and pausing to fortify sweet pea tendrils around a gauzy fence or admire the tea roses I bought her for Mother's Day.
And soon her footsteps follow mine; she is the more dedicated gardener, with "things to do, so she might as well do them" - her words to a neighbour also moved by the sirens drift to me through my bedroom window. I don't think sleep will find me again this morning, but while having pencil in hand and paper within reach may be my truest outlet, I'm learning that it's far from being my only one.
♥ music of the moment: calendar girl
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