In the Garden

Cover of Planet of the and dog....

As a small boy I used to pick up the telephone just to talk to the operator. She was always there. “Where’s your mommy?” she’d ask. How could I tell her my mommy was depressed and always sleeping? So I’d say: “she’s in the garden.”

Of real gardens there’s much to say. But the gardens of abstraction also need mentioning.

By the age of three I knew something about the real garden. I’d buried my spectacles there. My little Windsor specs, thick as dishes, designed to turn legal blindness into a better form of legal blindness and which older children laughed at. I buried them under the rhubarb.

Magic happens in gardens. Why wouldn’t my mother be there?

“Gardens are not made by singing ‘Oh, how beautiful!’ and sitting in the shade.” (Kipling)

But I remember sitting in the shade and wishing my mother would get up.

Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University

One thought on “In the Garden”

  1. I love this, not least because I, too, talked to the operator. What did you imagine would emerge from those buried Windsors?


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: