Wednesday, July 02, 2014
Her giant barrel planter was too heavy to lift, too depressing to empty. The whimsical arms that in warmer months held hanging pots were considered "fixtures", I was told. So too the pair of wall pockets I'd brought her from Spain. I had staggered with their heft, wrapped in that morning's El País and consuming nearly all of my carry-on, through three airports en route, but seeing her happily fill them with pansies each spring more than repaid my effort. At the last second I spotted the turtle she'd tucked away in a shady spot, his patina lending him the perfect camouflage. And so I carried his unwieldy body home on my lap, my hand on his back rubbing his shell like a talisman, hoping somehow the joy of my mother's garden would travel with him.