“Why don’t you ever garden?” Tony asked.
The sunlight sparkled through the large picture window. It was winter and our planter just outside our picture window was as bare as newly shaved skin.
“Because…” I drew out the because, imitating a small child. The television blared and I had my laptop on my lap.
Tony looked at me and gestured, “Because…why?” He drew out the y in why.
A car drove down the street, towing a trailer that clattered as it passed over the dip in the road. Our dog huffed and panted in a dead sprint towards the picture window , her paws hitting the window sill as she whined and barked. Tony yelled at our dog, before returning to our conversation.
“So?” He arched an eyebrow.
“Well, my writing took off.” I said.
“Yeah.” Tony sighed. “We could have put in a porch instead had I known. As it was, you wanted a front planter so bad.”
“We need to put more plants in the planter. It always looks half full in spring and summer.” He stared out the window.
“I can draw flowers on my computer.” I said.
Tony laughed, his body shaking from it. “Uh, uh.”
My green thumb had become blue–as in blue for computer graphics. No longer do I hold an interest in gardening as writing takes up all of my time. When May came, he dragged me to the store and we picked out packets of seed. He planted and watered the seeds, and while I love flowers and plants in general, I only love it after all the hard work has been done. Gardening was a passing phase. Abandoned and broken pots lay buried beneath the twisting vines of a plant whose name I have forgotten. Yet, every year the plants that thrive on neglect return and bring me continual joy.