At the top of my 'to do' list it says 'get seeds' and I suddenly miss my little garden, its slanted patch of green and the azaleas that explode every year about this time, the petunias and lilies, the neighbourhood children just past its pickets and our two dogs pressing their noses through the slats hoping for treats. I wonder how many springs before this missing gets exchanged for a new story, but mostly I'm afraid there won't be another. That each year in April I'll miss again the same pots of geraniums and marigolds the hummingbirds at the feeder the wildflowers my grandson planted along the garden's rocky edge. In my new home, surrounded by sidewalk, I sit at the window and try to imagine an April without that missing. 'Get seeds' on the grocery list begs me to start again.
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