Green Dreams

May 7th, 2018

Norman McLean wrote that he was haunted by waters, but I live with the ghosts of gardens past. The landscape of my childhood that was mostly lost to me over the years. Sweet pea vines weighing down a wire fence, forsythia fountains, hydrangeas  by a farm house porch out in the country, the lilies of the valley that grew under the window of my grandmother’s bedroom for one breathholding moment in spring, nasturtiums by my mother’s back door flourishing among the junk and weeds. Zinnias as common as we were. Where I live now in a southern coastal plain, there are prickly pear cactus, sea myrtles, gardenias, oleander, native grasses and climbing jasmine vines. Someone else’s birthright. I’ve adjusted to the sandy soil and wide open skies of this low country, but part of me will always wander by the banks of violets growing wild along shady roads, stare into big open-hearted dahlias and cling, always, to the possibility of peonies.

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