It is springtime on Shoshoni Avenue.
The chairs have obviously been wiped down but they have been here so many springs that (candidly) I am concerned about sitting on them with my new Vera Wang bermuda shorts.
I’m being vulnerable, so while discussing concerns, I’ll also share that as I walked through the backyard, which is simultaneously manicured and littered with flowers, I had a temporarily overwhelming fear that I would be stung by a bee while I was here all alone. Really, they won’t return from mass for a half hour, and instead of enjoying the warmth I’d be crying in pain, waiting anxiously for the comfort and bad ass girl scout skills of my mother.
(Sub-thought: I don’t like needing my mother.)
It’s springtime on Shoshoni. My uncle, who is a veteran and a hippie and a caregiver and a friend to the friendless, obviously took care this week to mow the lawn (it’s just weeds, really, but pretty ones, leveled into a lawn-like carpet) and to arrange grandma’s gardening containers just so.
It’s occurred to me that she should really grow corn out here.
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