Some of my words and memories still seem to be lying dormant. Then when conditions are right, they poke up into my consciousness.
Last week my sister came by to prune my rosebushes. Then we walked around the yard. I'm not a great gardener, but when she commented about a particular plant, I was delighted that I could remember the name. That's sweet woodruff, I said. I started it from a few sprigs many years ago.
Almost every day I walk around the garden now, and almost every day I remember more: bleeding hearts, that I almost pulled up that first summer in our house; irises, that my friend brought from Philly, nine years ago; the peony, that never blooms but always looks on the verge of it.
These are my memories, my words, I thought proudly. My garden.
1 day ago