Finding Comfort
Iron bunnies arc over wildflowers scattered randomly a few months back by Mother's hand full of seeds, letting her chickens decide what was picked and pecked, what survived, thrived. Flowering bushes and potted plants nestle amongst garden ornaments she loved: a windmill, water-spouting frogs, a birdbath, rocks from her travels out West, as well as winding rows full of vegetables. She liked to weed and mulch, but didn't over-trim or shape her garden; she liked the natural look, a place where chipmunk holes were welcome, where birds and butterflies found safe haven.
From a collection of hats, I select a blue-brimmed floppy from a peg, numerous garden implements neatly lined in a row below, idyl. I slip my hands into a pair of her gloves, put one to my cheek, comforted. I gather a few mementos, look forward to dirty fingernails, tired knees, and a sun-flushed farmer's-tan, Mother's iron bunnies cavorting above me.
This is linked with "Girlie on the Edge - Six Sentence Stories" - "Flush" is the word of the week. I suppose this is more of a reflection than a story - I'm used to writing poetry so this is kind of a mash-up of a story and a poem, maybe. But I'll post it and try and write a true story next time.
Artwork by Margaret Bednar
