I truly do not know what I’m doing.
Even so, the plants grow.
And the flowers bloom.
My mother calls it: The Unseen Forces of the Universe Helping Us Along The Way.
All I know: I long for a garden.
At age forty-seven-and-a-half, life feels liminal.
I am no longer young. Not yet old. Something between. Middle Aged Woman.
This place, this body, it’s something culture hasn’t mapped well. There’s no nuance to the terrain. Only sharp cliffs, musty caves, dead-ends. Falling skin, hollowing bones, disappearing muscles.
Nothing lovely left here, they say.
But my sense of it is different. Much richer. Like compost. Have you noticed how it stinks so good?