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.
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