Espaliered tree

Everything in its Place

           Time to turn the flower patch, so we go to the garage.  “Where’s my spade?” I ask.
            (He’s always blaming other people when he can’t find something.) “I didn’t use it,” I answer.
            (She’s deflecting.  Honesty would be quicker than denial.)  “Somebody did.  It’s not on its hook.”
            (He accuses instead of looking around.)  “Ask Jimmy.”
            (She doesn’t want to help find it, and she’s scapegoating Jimmy.)  “I can never get him to work for me, you know that.”
            (He’s not giving up.  I don’t want to get into it about Jimmy.)  “Molly?” I suggest.
            (She’s still putting me off.)  “Molly hates to dig in the dirt, you know that.”
            (He wants the story.)  “Her turtle died.”
            (She wants sympathy, for Molly and for herself.  But I still need my shovel.)  “So where’s the spade?”
            (He’s avoiding my feelings, and Molly’s feelings.)  “Look for the bare patch in the yard.”
            (She means I was too insensitive to see the upturned earth.)  “You let her dig in the yard?”
            “Your spade is leaning against the redbud, if you’d care to look.”
            (She means I don’t care to look, don’t care enough, that I’m insensitive and prefer everything in its place, mission accomplished.  And maybe she’s right.)  “Can we take her out for ice cream after I finish with the flower bed?”
            (He’s trying.)  “That’d be nice,” I say. 
We will turn the earth, prepare for another season.  Next spring Molly will have  flowers for the turtle’s small grave.













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