I own my home. And one of the great fantasies I had was of the garden. It would be a secret garden, a refuge. Walls of climbing things and vegetables. It was going to be charming, in the true magical sense.
The actual state of my garden is otherwise. I don't value a green lawn, and it shows. Weeds mowed down over messy edges. It crunches like crumpled paper when you walk over it. Clover weeds with oil drill roots have overrun all the bare spots, and there are many. Somewhere in there was a raspberry bush. Giant rotting cucumbers with cracked skin rest beneath dried beans. I gave away the few corn husks I grew. The eggplant is falling over under the weight of the now gray orbs. I didn't eat one. I pull the carrots and the beets, but I won't get to them all, and the tomato has blight. The cilantro and oregano bolted at the beginning of June, it was so hot, and the peppers look the same as the day I brought them home from Paulino's.
Last year was better, but then again I had help. I tried in the spring. Was out there everyday. Now when I step in it says to me, "Oh, now you've come? Decided to show your face? Well we don't need you, and the little you have to give."
"I couldn't help it this year. I've been uprooted myself."
"Did you want sympathy?"
"No. I wanted to be able to do this. Next year, I promise. I can't heal any faster than I can heal."
"Well be dead next year."
I would like to have a garden party, to post instgrams of lovely flowers and bushes.
Guess it is just not that kind of blog.