We know that in September, we will wander through the warm winds of summer’s wreckage. We will welcome summer’s ghost.
Recently I suffered the dreaded Covid virus, not a welcome experience. I lost a month to symptoms we simply won’t dwell on, as those details are not welcome either. My little gardens outside and random deck pots and planters had to soldier on without my watering ritual and encouraging conversations. At one point, I begged my husband to water my wilting friends. He rescued them, and I went back to bed.
Every spring, I eagerly plant my tiny plants and seeds and welcome them to live harmoniously with others. Some of them I must admit are more cooperative than others. I give them a season, and if they don’t pull their weight, then next spring I will leave their siblings on the nursery shelves for homes more conducive to their well being.
Now better, I walk about my little yard, moving my hose from place to place. I am “wandering among the warm winds of summer’s wreckage,” so to speak. I celebrate my resilient plants still able to greet me, then mourn those who simply weren’t up for the task of surviving where they found themselves planted and abandoned. My perennials, a bit tattered, are more forgiving. Next spring, I hope they will give me another chance. I realize some of my struggling friends needed more shade or sun from the beginning. Why did I not realize that? I vow to improve my hospitality skills.
Summer is receding. I can feel the welcome of cooler breezes in the morning, and yet, I still welcome those “ghosts of summer,” those random days that remind us of what we dared to grow and welcome in our gardens.