My garden

To find a patch of land and make it yours and then give it away. That’s love.

Why do we garden? It is a testament. It is husbandry—I wish there were a word like this that didn’t have husband in it. Wifery, maybe.

We know we are impermanent. We know we pass. But the land, the land. If w are wise in our use of it. If we love it with all our hearts, it will last and last. We bequeath our love to the next generation. We create beauty and know it is only borrowed beauty.

I love to work in my garden. I just about kill myself some days raking, clipping, digging, rearranging and looking. I talk to my birds—Joe the towhee, chickadee dee dee, the song sparrow, the robin. I exult.

This is not a perfect garden, this is mine. It is a little ramshackle, helter skelter. It feeds my soul. It makes me happy. It is the outward sign of an inner grace which has been gifted to me by who knows who, maybe myself. It’s my gift to me.

Self-determination

Grow the fuck up. That’s what I want to yell. Grow the fuck up. Life didn’t turn out the way you planned. You have diabetes. You have to manage it. If you don’t manage it, it will manage you. It will take your sight, your feet, maybe your legs. It will reduce you to a lump sitting in a wheelchair yelling at other people or dogs or whatever gets in your way, just to give you some agency.

I’ve had it with compassion for you. I’ve had it with making suggestions, writing down lists of snacks, reminding you to take your pills, to take your shots. Enough. Basta.

You don’t like your life?—grow the fuck up. You don’t like your life, change it. This goes for everyone. Me too.

Marsupials and rain

I’m an opossum rooting around in the undergrowth. I snuffle, snurfle and I love your garbage. No frills eater. I eat anything that my little body can hold. I toil in the soil. I have a little pink nose and my tail is half slippery skin and half hair. People say I’m unattractive, but I’ve never suffered from lack of attention from the males of the species. Every time I turn around there is someone trying to crawl up my back—either a male or one of my babies.

People also say I’m unpleasant. Oh really. I hiss at you so you won’t bop me on the head with your shovel or rake. I’m not bothering anyone and I’m not looking for attention. Stick to your Labs if you want some furry thing to cuddle up to. All I do is work. Yard cleanup, garbage cleanup. Any kind of cleanup, I’m your gal.

People also say I smell bad. That is a lie. I only smell bad when I’m protecting myself from a predator. When I’m scared I fall down, foam at the mouth and excrete a foul odor like something that has been dead for days. How’s that for a neat trick. I am extremely versatile.

This is what I look like when I’ve had it:

If I was a bear, I’d say run for it, but as I am only a pisspoor marsupial, walk on by. I’m all defensive energy, no follow through. You go your way, I’ll go mine.

Other great info—I am immune to many things—snake bite, rabies, mange(Iknow, I know, it looks like I already have the mange), many poisons. Tics are my bag of popcorn. I have an opposable thumb on my back paws—

Her herness

My sister Betsy was born on September 22, 1957 and died on December 9, 1980. She had a small white elephant as a child. My sister Jane keeps it on a shelf with other old worn yet cherished members of our toy family. His name is Elly and he has lost most of his plushiness, reduced in spots to bare cloth.

My memories of Betsy are reduced to that; worn bare by years of telling and play. I can’t remember her voice, the feel of her skin and hair, her being. I remember the stories, I remember her exploits. I have lost her herness. For years I carried some of her drawings, her clothes, her underpants. They are worn to nothing now like Elly. Mostly they are gone.

My grief has gone bone deep. Her absence is fixed in my center and it only hurts when I press it. I have to press it. I want to press it to remind myself that I had a sister, a glorious sister, complicated, loving, maddening, accomplished, gone.