During the past week, I did my spring planting with a purple theme in mind. This wall planter was among those I gussied up for the growing season, a great thrift store find last fall.
“I insist upon pink, floppy-petal blooms!” the statue came to life and squeaked the high-pitched fuss, interrupted by a few delicate coughs, as if clearing her throat of the winter’s dust.
I jumped back, not expecting her criticism or input of any kind. “Why?” I asked, blinking a few times.
“The large blossoms shade my eyes, and that hue goes well with my gray complexion, so I’ve been told.”
Not wanting to learn what might happen if I displeased the new lady of my garden, I returned to the garden store and bought the flowers she requested, as well as an impulse purchase of a spray of ivy.
Once I wiped spilled potting soil from her face and hung her on the house wall, she rolled her eyes upward and exclaimed, “Ah, diminutive pink sunbrellas!” Her eyes rotated to her left and she observed, “And you’ve let one hang down that I may easily see.” The corners of her mouth drew into a smile that has remained ever since.