I needed something mindless to do today, so killing my garden was top on the list.
What carnage!
I know.
It really wasn’t a garden, but a jungle refuge for butterflies and birds.
And my wild vines made the neighbors start complaining that ants were using my vines for transport into their houses. I was compelled to respond.
I still loved it, however uncontained it was. My row of townhouse neighbors are all bricked over sensibility; they fucking look like a parking lot collectively.
My vines flowered most of the year in yellow, pink and white and even had fragrance.
Bees loved my backyard. I even saw hummingbirds.
I started small with a few potted flowers like geraniums, but the beastly sun ate everything I planted. Even cactus died.
There is no topsoil, just whatever remains of the neighborhood that died before mine.
But the vines lived, flowered, and would not be put down.
With my one good hand, I will put their hospitality down, like good neighbors do.
And secretly I hope they survive, for birds, bees and butterflies.
Who needs another driveway?
- Mary O. Fumento, 2008
