a dirt garden
A child sweeps a dirt garden in South Africa. A college student plants flowers that disappear beneath a deck. A woman in Indianapolis moves mulch, ties daffodils, plants sunflowers, and wonders why she needs to remember everything. Perhaps memory is not a box where life is stored after it happens. Perhaps it is a garden itself: some things seeded, some things buried, some things returning years later with a name I did not know they had.
At Holmesdale Road, I liked to make perfume out of my mum’s roses. At 122 Ouklip Street, I would wonder at the bottlebrush plants, and I would sweep my imaginary dirt garden. It was just all dirt and no flowers due to South African drought. At Oakhall Park, I was in charge of gardening, and I nurtured the violets and tied down the daffodils.
In college, I planted a bunch of flowers at 206 South Third Street that then had a deck built over them. I loved the daylilies on Haverford Avenue, and I started planting my garden in 2000! Now it is a beast.
I spent two hours gardening yesterday. I weeded, planted sunflowers, planted other seeds, tied back daffodils, applied fertilizer, moved mulch, and mowed the lawn. Today, I am weeding Dr. Cho’s with Peanut. Laura is supposed to call around 5:45.
I am worried about planting the seed bombs. I am worried that I will do it wrong, and I am worried that I will plant them in the wrong place. At the moment, I am thinking along the side of the house, in the garden on the south side, along the neighbor’s driveway.
On Sunday, Jennifer and I went to a plant festival at the park. It was kind of annoying because we had to pay $9 to get in. Last year it was free. Oh well. They had some great plants, but I have more. Evil laugh. I could make a lot of money if I sold my plants, which I am not going to do. I wonder if my flowers will be taken into consideration when valuing the house in the future. The new generation is coming up, and they like and value plants.
