Here I am - fighting and fussing through my days with a head cold instead of sowing in the garden. I want to be well enough to pick which flowers will be planted this spring, but life has a way of throwing rocks at windows when all you wanted was rain. I have been in my cocoon called a bedroom where the only flowers here are sitting on a dress or hanging in all of their dried and delicate glory. I watch the pollen float through a crack of light in my bedroom window. I sneeze like the whole world is going to hear me. I wonder how I could ever complain about the taste of my supper during the times when my body felt right.
These photographs were taken a week ago, when I felt better, and the garden center was packed with people who had escaped winter and found in themselves a desire to buzz around like bees and set their senses alight by the flowers. I let my joy be sparked by the look on a woman's face when she reaches for her favorite snapdragon plant or a child who grabs a petunia and says "mammy, can we haf this one?" I remember all of the times I saw my mother's hand reach for pots to add to the garden and how it made her seem like she was wearing hearts for eyes. Out of every memory made in my lifetime, the ones where she is there and we're garden bound appear fairest in my mind.
I long to return with her so we can make the backyard come alive with our own little poems, but first, it's a box of tissues and the foghorn sound of my throat begging to return to singing and feeling well again.
outfit details: Modcloth dress, Value Village / thrifted hat & shoes