Gardens and Me

A seed catalog addressed to “Current Resident” came today. Garden season is approaching the northeast, and this current resident is not buying. I’ve learned that my inner gardener likes her gardens provided by lovely walks through the parks and two lush botanical gardens nearby. I planted my final garden some years back. It was too far from the spigot, making watering arduous in the summer heat. The shade of too many trees came at it from all sides. (Why had I thought that patch was sunny?) It lured rabbits. (What? We had rabbits?) I grew garden-weary. So very garden-weary. What on earth had driven me to carve out a garden in the far reaches of the yard? Oh, right. The celebratory table at summer’s end, all the kids home.

That final dinner—the green beans, the marinated cucumbers and piles of tomatoes, the roasted eggplants—all of it, except for one woody zucchini among the good ones on the grill, came from the supermarket. I lifted my glass to the approaching autumn and the leaves that would soon cover both the garden and the regret of a non-gardener who thought she could remake herself.

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