Mine is not a victory garden. I mean there is nothing edible unless you’re counting the herbs, but the peppermint and chocolate mint tickle my hand as I pass. I run my hand through the lush oregano and release a savory trail. The rosemary begs to be pinched, and I scoop up a bit of lemon balm we can brew into a fine tea this afternoon. It will go well with the sour cream pound cake in the oven.
And if we are suffering, I want more of this. My handsome gardener takes my hand and walks me down the stone path and delights in the new blooms with me and shares his dream of building things, and I marvel at how fascinating he is. I wonder if before the pandemic turned the world on its axis, we would have treasured this time. When the world goes back to normal, will he still have time to sit with me in the morning over coffee and share the coming day and last night’s dreams? If normal is a return to nonstop meetings and burning the road to put out fires every day, I can do without normal.
Even now, I can’t believe I wake up to the dew and go to sleep with him wrapped around me. Make me some honey coffee and come back to bed, I want to say. We have lost time to catch up on. Let us suffer together in our newfound victory.