Perfection

In some gardens, the salvias are tidy bouquets of blooms.  Asters and coneflowers are properly spaced.  And monarda is forbidden to wander about.

In some gardens, the honeysuckle is trained on a trellis and the basil is never allowed to flower.

But in my garden, an unruly brush pile in the far corner shelters songirds and small mammals from winter winds. 


My compost pile is possibly the largest in Durham County, since the municipal facility spontaneously combusted and was closed down.

Near the street, the orange daylilies overrun the blue Stokes aster, and they in turn are smothered by the rampant excesses of the purple passionvine.

Explosions of flowers provide nectar and pollen to feed the bees and butterflies, while the coreopsis and sunflowers produce abundant seeds for the birds. 

The garden is home and food and shelter for many creatures, but its lack of discipline ensures that it will never be the centerfold in a garden magazine.


Yet perfection extracts a heavy price.

This morning, I woke before dawn, thinking about her mother. 

How she sifted through the words and scanned the faces of everyone at the funeral, to find even a single friend, someone who had known and appreciated her daughter, a promising new professor at an elite university, who died alone in her apartment from complications from anorexia.

The eulogists from the faculty spoke about her brilliant mind, her preparedness, her punctuality.

Her thoughtfulness at someone's baby shower.

Then her brother spoke about her love of fashion, her appreciation of fashion magazines, of styles and trends, her joy in lovely things.

She and I had never spoken and I had only seen her twice at the university.  She had been at the snack bar, her back to me, looking over the M&M's and the cheese crackers, but while I was making my purchase, she stepped silently away. 

I barely remember the beautiful clothes on her impossibly thin frame.

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