Growing pain
The cuttings of the lemon geranium that my father took care of me until last year is firmly in good soil. Apparently, I have a little green of his fingers in me, more than a cubit in the last 12 months. A beautiful and memorable memento of a man on whose head nothing wanted to grow.
With every weekly watering I know about the nourishing, educating, deep-seated and dull moreover. If I carefully remove discolored branches, this connects us in search of sunlight, heating, care. Repotting in between and laying a good soil as life lessons against thirst.
You've been there for almost a year, but you've never been out of my mind. Weeds do not perish, nor does grass grow in a busy street. That this might be greener at the neighbours, whether you see it being mowed away for your feet, or that I still know the same shade.
Hail, we are growing steadily. Thoughts in delightful memories. To mitigate the lack, we'll have another one together tonight, and another for the road. Just swallow it. The young and the old, that is. Rest gently.
