Tentworms in the trees still
Yesterday, I worked long hours with the soil, carving out a little stream of daylilies that now runs like a green ribbon away from the house, tracing the line of the hose. I’m proud of it—it feels like I shaped something alive, a small river of beauty that leads the eye outward. With the trees trimmed back, new possibilities have opened: light touches spots that had been shaded for years. Even the bare stretch by the fence, where Chewy once sprinted to the top and trampled everything, now calls out for planting again. It feels like a second chance for that part of the yard, and for me, too.
Of course, the tree crew left their mess—broken bulbs, tire tracks, a forgotten sweatshirt—and even tent worms that slipped past their work. I noticed them while sitting with Toni, sharing spinach curry and stories of our children’s transitions. The worms will be dealt with, just like the rest. I texted the head guy and claimed my authority: I am a master gardener. This garden has taught me persistence, to trust what I see with my own eyes.
Money is tighter now, and I tell myself no bulbs this year. And yet, how could I resist? The cleared space begs to be filled. Each season I’ve planted here, something of my past has surfaced—the Lindt chocolates Dora once sent, the birthdays, the griefs, the comfort of continuity. Even now, flowers bloom where memories ache, and I feel my mother’s birthday close, as though the soil itself remembers with me.
The garden holds all of this: the chatter of friends, the marks of workers, the small losses, the openings for something new. Today, Catherine and I will walk among flowers at the IMA, but I already feel the deepest walk is here—right outside my back door.
