Sitting on my tricycle, I'd watch them as a child. Three of them living close by. Digging and shoving plants in holes, ripping out weeds with a vengeance, sprinkling seeds everywhere.
A strange smile covered their faces as they watered and watered away. As I grew older they became more frightening. Tanned and wrinkled from too much sun, stooped from all that kneeling, fingers curled with Carpel Tunnel from cutting, trimming, snipping, displaying the wild eyed look of inmates.
Obsessive gardeners have a God Complex. They plant, nurture, create life, then viciously yank it away to be placed in bouquets for pagan rituals like prom night. I once tried to speak to one, but her fierce glare drove me away. My parents, thankfully, were all about concrete and tar. Not one tulip around my home.
Sadly, I have a friend who sold her home and garden and now lives in an apartment. I see her now and then, twitching, drooling, shaking, cursing, sliding into dis-function. I fear she will wind up sitting on a bench outside some hospital surrounded by pretty plants that some white uniformed attendant is always watering.
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