It is safe to say that no one would mistake me for a gardener. I couldn’t even play one convincingly on TV. The fact that I’ve killed cacti before is proof of just how black my thumb is. But every day recently, I have had to scrub away dirt from under my fingernails.
I’m still not a gardener I can say in all honesty, but I have a new appreciation since I planted seeds in a container near my porch. Late in the season, of course. Because it’s not as if I could know what I was doing. In spite of me, however, my nestlings are thriving. And I’m like a proud parent gushing over how her offspring are already getting so big.
I am anxious to witness the seeds I buried blossom into the petals they will become.
In the meantime, I worry about my sprouts constantly. They are the first thing I check on in the morning and the last at night. I peek out to see how they are in the blistering heat of the summer afternoon. I water and tend. I photograph their development and post pictures online. I’m sure I’d burp and change their diaper if it was needed. Though I’m glad it’s not.
And when it stormed the other day, a flash flood kind of downpour, the elements were braved to protect their fragile stems. I got rain-soaked as I secured a plastic bag over that pot. Then again a few minutes later when that shelter wasn’t keeping them safe enough, until my mind was at ease. That’s part of the since formed mother-creature in me that I can’t turn off, I never stop worrying. Even when I’m babying flowers.