SPRING FEVER
It is a lovely day with temperatures in the upper 50′s. The breeze, still a bit crisp but warming, draws the cat to the window and my mind to my lost garden.
Every plant, shrub and tree got a close inspection for signs of life, and each fat bud, each tiny sprout from the ground, brought tremendous joy.
It is, alas, no longer my garden. We moved into a townhome last year. I don’t have a garden now. It isn’t the first time I have sighed with remorse over my lost garden. Downsizing has it downside.
I get downright melancholy at the thought of my lost garden. The sea of red tulips next to the driveway will cheer the new owner coming home from a day at the office.
The cat stretches and rolls to her side as another fresh breeze washes the stale out of the house.
This is the time of year that I crane my neck driving past the garden center, nearly rear-ending cars in front of me, just to see if the doors have been flung open yet. The arrival of the first racks of pansies make me positively giddy with spring fever each and every year.
I am overcome with the fever to sink something — anything — into the soil. The grief over my lost garden has not dulled that desire in the slightest. This year, however, that soil must be in the form of pots on my tiny patio.
The challenge? To turn this drab slab of concrete into a lush oasis of blooms and green. Oh yes, I have plans for this small space. I console myself with the knowledge that it will take much less care than a full yard of garden. I have visions of having time to sip lemonade while reading a novel. But, first. I must make an inventory of my pots and make a list of plants to purchase.
The garden center will open any day now.
