Like a weekend at home with Stephanie and Scottie. Katie, their mom lent them to me for Friday night. We went swimming (indoors, it’s still in the 40s in OH), poked around in the garden and rode bikes. And did a little science experiment with leather and static electricity (see pic).
Harding High was my last school this year, and whether the weather has caught up with the calendar or not, I’m ready for summer. Way ready. Past ready. It is good to be back home. I worked a little in the garden where I planted some pansies (my mother’s favorite flower) next to the rock (too big to swallow, small enough to hold in my stomach) that I brought home from my father’s gravesite in Arlington. As I sit here typing, I’m smiling imagining them squabbling out there to one another. Of course their bickering never seemed so amusing when they both were alive.
Home and all its definitions — could fill books. Has. I thought about writing about working in the garden but have decided to declare a personal moratorium on that subject. A seed is supposed to be the original metaphor and writers/poets have about done it to death.
So no writing from the garden.
Well, until something springs from the fertile soil of my mind. An insignificant sprout, new shoots, blossoms to be plucked for closer examination.