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my time noticing the wind or the newly plant- for them because they physically can't do it
ed flower beds. I compliment their progress, anymore. I'll be delighted they trust me, but
sad I can't watch them do it themselves. It
and they are pleased. will be bitter sweet. Until they can't do it any-
"Good blooms," I tell my pap. I use his more, they'll do it. I've learned to be proud of
that, instead of envious. Past pine trees and
own irregular vocabulary when I talk to him. begonias, past the years we have shared, we
are entering into an evergreen nostalgia. I'm
I think it puts him at ease. no gardener, but I can still be a part of the sto-
One day, I'd like to beat my father to the ry. I'm a part of their life story whether I like
punch and finish one of their familiar sto- it or not. But I like it.
ries. I do, after all, know all the punch lines. Summer Sundays are still my favorite
I'd like to walk out there and interrupt their
laughter and say, "Guess what happened to time to go to the garden. The dusk settles
me today ... " and finish my story and make over everything living, a blanket of peace
it familiar to them. Maybe one day, they'll and quiet and dark. I can hear the hum ~f
look up from their potting and pruning and the insects, I can feel the laziness of the aru-
notice me. Anything is possible, but in the mals breathing, I can see the drooping of the
meantime, it's nice to bring them lunch. In day lilies. The lightening bugs blink on a~d
other arenas, the kitchen, the family room, big off, and I stand there with the men in my life,
weekend dinners when we invite my grandpa all of us a little older, wiser, more tattered by
over, I have their full attention. But not in the time, and we wait until the moon comes o~t
garden. The garden is theirs. Their minds are in full. We wait until it has fully appeared in
only with the plants and with one another. the sky, the last colors of light smeared on the
horizon. Then we make a path to the house,
As time passes, I pout less over the bond joining together. in other, non-garden talk.
they share. I'm happy my grandfather is still The triangle of memory soon changes shape
alive, among the green, and I wouldn't steal and disperses, but will likely come together
that happiness away for anything, not even
for a spot in their club. In a sense, we're all again for all the Sundays that are left.
still waiting for the day when I can offer my
gifts to their secret society, when I'm the one
who will have to plant and mow and water
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