There was a woman once who wanted a garden, all she wanted was to watch it grow. She had photos of them in her apartment when she was young, and couldn’t wait until she had a backyard to plant in.
Eventually, she moved to a house and bought everything she saw in the pictures.
Teak wood holders and fancy hats and gloves, seeds shipped in from Africa. I had a garden too, wild and unruly thing.
She would peer over the fence and scoff at it, making sure I knew that letting things run wild is no way to be. She wore white starched shirts and had straight brown hair and she never unzipped herself.
She would sit out there all day sometimes and just move the soil back and forth hoping that something would come out of it. She would watch each plant and cut off the ugly parts when the came up to make sure that when her vegetables grew they would be the ones she wanted.
She would come out every day with shears and snip off little buds that were misshapen or not the way she wanted.
She would look them over and feel the leaves and dig up the roots to make sure they were taking.
She would spray them every hour and gaze at the empty garden from the window every day, and nothing ever grew. Nothing every sprung, nothing every became beautiful.
Cut out the ugly bits and make sure your pride is front and centre and keep everything nice and respectable and nothing, nothing will ever grow. I don’t see her anymore, the lady in the garden, she gave up because nothing ever happened, but she still comes over to look at my garden, complaining about how wild I let things grow.