this seedy season

The conifer-filled park next to my building is blooming spring green. Shoots. Nubs. Spikes. Little white protuberances. Everything is seeding. Dandelion fluff abounds. Fluffier little goslings waddle along between their ever-vigilant parents. Seedlings, after all, need to be protected.
So it is with my garden, where the herbs are doing fine but the tomatoes are being attacked by something. Tonight I’ll boil garlic and onions and red pepper and make the spray that’s supposed to repel the evildoers. If nothing else, my garden’s smell will make the mouths of passersby water.
Above my sink, one-out-of three avocado pits is putting down roots. It’s the season for putting down roots. Except for me. And the two other avocado pits.
I think I was born to be a gypsy. Have inflatable bed; will travel. Boston, Longmeadow, York Beach — anywhere but where I have to worry about vacuuming and doing dishes and taking responsibility for someone else.
I have this fantasy that my brother will make an addition to his house, to where my mother and I will move. That will be my home base, but I will also spend time at my daughter’s, at the homes of my women friends, and even with my cousins who are planning to retire to Florida. I will finally be motivated to get rid of the clothes that cram my closets and will pare my life down to what I can pack into my car.
This seedy season calls me to freedom. But I blog instead.

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