She's trying to learn to embrace imperfection...she's failing...she can't keep her mouth shut. She wants to know where he hid his master gardener's certificate. She wants to grind it into the ground with her mud encrusted boot, pour gasoline over it, and watch the flame of the dropping match torch it into cinders. She wants to know why he wasn't struck by a huge bolt of lightning when his large pudgy fingers wrapped themselves around that worthless piece of paper on his and hers last evening of classes. He doesn't see a problem...all the hoopla she's created...why can't she just chill out. So overly melodramatic...too nit witty picky...she's a pain where the sun don't shine. She resigned to living with a mistake last time, so why can't she live with another insignificant teeny little mistake this time? How was he supposed to know that huge purple flowering vine he crushed at the base when he backed up from weeding would have recovered if he hadn't ripped it out of the ground to cover up his mistake? How could she have missed it that soon? Did it scream out to her telepathically? He thought it a bit overkill to be asked how he felt about trashing $35 and three years of her hard work down the toilet in 10 seconds flat. Now she says she needs a break from all the extra work he's causing her. She says she needs things done her way, not his way...to rephrase it, she said...she needs things done the right way, not the wrong way. He thinks she's loopy...he DOES do it her way. He went to those entire master gardener classes with her, for her. He even agreed to stop bugging her to use her own personal money instead of household money for upkeep of the gardens. He doesn't understand her last tizzy fit with her patch of newly planted prairie garden above the pond. He listened to her whine about the drought tolerant plants being drought stressed, so he fixed it for her. What's the big deal! Why is she at the top of the pond cussing and raking off the four inches of water saturated powder-fine wood mulch he painstakingly lumped on and around her plants? He's now banned from the gardens without adult supervision. She says she wants him to stay away from her plants so she will still have a garden come late summer. He doesn't quite know how to take his current situation. He must have misunderstood her last week when she complained she no longer wanted to be his mom. He decides to throw in the towel...no more Mr. Good Guy. He plants himself on the cushy couch in front of the big screen television in that air conditioned room with his tall glass of iced tea and tries to avoid eye contact and feeling like a dog every time she drags in from the gardens saturated in sweat, tracking dirt across the floor looking...well, quite frankly...looking like one of those plants in her prairie garden that started wilting two days ago.
The leopard frog quietly waits beneath four bags of hardwood mulch held high from the ground by two rows of cinder blocks. The sun has set, and he emerges into the twilight glow softly hopping across the patio into the garden beyond.
Two chirps break the hushed approach of darkness as the little tree frog inches from under a valley in the vinyl siding towards the open edge bordering the deck's sliding door. It chirps again, and emerges poking its head out from under the trim. Gradually it seems to float across the wall, but only when you're not looking.
Dusk begins to pulsate with sparkles as lightning bugs hover, then move silently in and out of the plant shadows. The last bird calls of the day are fading as a few sunflower chips are plucked from the feeder by late feathered visitors.
Silk threads appear across the landscape as the night spiders begin their journey to find their special place amid the leafy tree canopy and gardens below. The buzz of wings passes by as an invisible beetle makes its way into the black void beyond. The air is still.
The tinkling of wind chimes suspended from the second hook of the hanging bird feeders' shepherd pole announces the opossum has found the remaining seeds, and you know that morning light will break upon an empty feeder.
You look long until the outline of the world begins to slowly emerge from the darkness, your senses begin to sharpen, and the air grows with fragrances and night sounds. You begin to realize that you are just one in all of infinity...one thread in the woven blanket of the entire cosmos.
You sigh, lean back on the swing, and look into the heavens sparkling with a dusting of stars from horizon to horizon. You wait for that first shooting star of the night that will make your heart light, but know that most likely the only moving lights will be planes high overhead. No Matter.
You're happy, and it doesn't need to be any better that that.