Already, there are things I know I would change if I could. So much of it is just time. Then, there’s the weather.
For the better part of April and almost all of May, it rained. The trees swayed under cloudbursts like women washing their hair, tossing their heads back in the rinse. Pollen gathered in little pools and then dried in yellow halos on the blacktop. For weeks, I worried over the borrowed plot of land in the field across the road, but there was nothing to do about it — nothing to do but wait. “It’s ok,” Mike reassured me, “it’s still early.” May was spent by the time I got my vegetables in the ground.
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