I'm writing from our backyard this morning, keeping an eye on Lucky the bunny, making sure he isn't nibbling my petunias or digging up the hens & chicks I just transplanted.
In spite of the glare on my laptop, I chase the sun around the patch of moss we call a lawn, soaking up warmth and wishing sunlight could reach through the small windows of our low-slung, fir shaded 1970's ranch house.
My flowerbed is dry and desperate looking, in all honesty -- nothing like the lush swaths of annuals that bloomed wherever my Great Aunt Minnie lived.
In my mind's eye I can still her signature cosmos towering over marigolds the size of salad plates; and daisys, dianthus, snapdragons & sweetpeas stepping their way down to the hens & chicks that clucked along, forming a natural border to her patch of heaven.
While I also remember Aunt Minnie for her girlish giggle, her missing index finger and the little silver flask she carried inside her purse, it's always her flower patch I see when memory brings her to mind.
I am grateful I didn't inherit her penchant for "taking a nip," and I'm okay with my more serious nature, but oh how I wish, wish, wish she'd passed her green thumb down to me.
A while ago bunny tucked his wiggly nose through a slat in the fence to chomp my neighbor's vagrant clematis vine. For a moment I considered letting him -- their sunny, lush backyard unearths envy in me I didn't know was possible -- but, I shooed him away.
He's been behaving for quite awhile now, probably reminded by my scolding that he's lucky, indeed, to be loose from his wire condo.
Still, somewhere inside me, I hear a little giggle, tempting me to get up and coax bunny back to the fence.
I know I shouldn't ...