The beauty of leaving it and living with Jonathan is that he always steps up to the plate. For the past week I have dragged my sorry self from the bed when the sun insists on rising and though I try to hide my eyes, avert my gaze, hide under the table, I can’t help but notice the whole wide world outside the kitchen windows. Weeds as tall as an army of men, tomatoes aging on the vine, and basil curling up around the edges.
I push open the screen door.
“NO CAN DO” I say to the general area and anybody out there. (There is nobody out there.)
I make coffee and hot milk and blueberry pancakes and push open the front door for the paper and come back to the table. Looking at the garden I see work. Grumpy comes knocking and steps in without an invite. Grumpy happens to me like breathing.
I try to focus on the election.
I work on the computer with my head phones on.
Jonathan is not overwhelmed by growth. He just gets out there and takes it on. Weeds are pulled, basil is flying in the blender with olive oil and garlic, the grapes are cut back and order is returned to a backyard in Queens.
I have promised to blanch the tomatoes. It’s the least I can do.

my garden is looking good!