Are we down to the wire, then? Is it really time to call it a day, chalk it all up to experience, put it out of its misery, remember the best and forget the rest?
I have what I am beginning to recognize as pre-nostalgia as I wander through my yard at sunset, trying to calculate how many jobs there are left before our property is worthy to be listed. The house has suffered the usual indignities from having been lived in by actual people, but the yard is a different creature than it was when we acquired it seven-plus years ago. I’m not saying it’s anything grand. It’s on the same life-support system that keeps the rest of our subdivision humming along. But nearly every inch of it has been replanted. By me. The same person who used to be too nervous to hack off withered branches because what if they were just playing dead and I actually murdered them with my clippers?
I’ve become someone who, unable to justify buying a new pair of shoes for three solid years, was nevertheless compelled to acquire a number of rather costly peonies to see if they would perform their magic in my yard (they did, spectacularly). More obsessively than I document my children do I take pictures of the same plant day after day, just to watch it change over the season. Yes, I am “that” woman who has a personal relationship with every tree in her yard, even the giant cottonwoods which will someday topple over and crush her house to the ground.
Please let it be after we move.