It is a windy April afternoon in Brooklyn. The last of five-fingered white apple blossoms cling to stems now covered with leaves on a tree outside; the rest of the seasons first blossoms are on the ground, blowing in the wind towards the bustle of Bedford Avenue.
A city backyard garden, still unplanted, was covered in a carpet of white apple blossoms last evening. A good wine from Australia, red merlot, my bare feet, a book translated from Latin—the third version of such I have read, all by different offers, yet again, the story sends chills down my spine. My toenails sure need clipping and those pedals and the pages of this book I am reading—I’m like a flower coming into full bloom back here.
The wind kissed the earth last night and the dry stems from last seasons garden reappear atop the barren soil as the apple blossoms skirt away. Skeletal remains of sunflowers and tomato vines are signs of an unforgiving winter. Bury them. Turn them under. Make them mulch.
The morning sun at my bedroom window was filtered today by a tree outside that is no longer bare. The cardinals that nested in the apple tree last summer have returned. Life is too busy for me now– I don’t have the time to sit outside keeping an eye on the birds all day– just listening as they sing while I sink into a good book—such a temptation when there is so much to do in life.
Life has changed– so much of my free time is gone. Life was tough unemployed, but at least I had time to vanish into a book. I’m too busy now. So much work to do– no time to tend a garden.
As I peck at the ground of cyberspace upon my hoe of a keyboard, the cardinals sitting in the filtered sun on a fence just outside this morning sing of shame. They sing a tune of sunflowers– if ever a sunflower could write a song. A tweet that serves as a reminder of what I must do in that garden before moving out of this place– leave something for them to eat this Fall– after I’m gone from here– a patch of sunflowers will do. This place was never mine anyway—it was my dead lover’s and he has been buried for seven years now.
Got that itch to get out and not bother planting a garden here again this Spring.
The birds will watch over Baby Girl when I’m gone– the calico kitten that came crawling in from this garden and adopted me and my lover. She died of a massive stroke, it seemed. Bradley was up all night holding her little white, black and brown paw as she went into the light. I was in bed. I cried myself to sleep as she passed. Woke up the next day and put her in the garden. We felt so much better after that. She’s buried out there under the apple blossoms– near the grape vine.
I must plant a garden for the birds again this spring– even if I do plan to move next month– time to go– one can grow sunflowers almost anywhere.
In this garden, sunflowers grow as tall as city sky scrapers; one may never grow one like them again. Perhaps the new tenants that move in here when I’m gone will know what’s to be done out here, every spring, just after the last apple blossom has fallen.