On my mother's side I am a link in the chain of dowager-humped, stooped, craggy women who suffer osteoarthritis early and whose backs, knees, fingers and toes look Golem-nobby.
My fingers have all started curving in one direction, like a field of sunflowers. My grandmother's fingers did the same. Also just like her I've also started carrying a cardigan. Cardigans must be the part of my epigenome that begins to express itself after 40, cardigans and irritability, and the desire to shade garden.
I got really irritated with a potted plant yesterday.
It was not lavender that I was mad at. It was my body. The bastard ached after troweling in the dirt for not very long and I was in the mood to garden and it was a gorgeous high-blue Sierra Madre kind of a day and suddenly what I was was pissed off that I couldn't do what I wanted to do. I stomped the yard having a sandbox tantrum. "Fucking delphiniums," I said.
I sat down on a lawn chair exhausted from the effort of untangling the thriving vine of my stinkin' thinkin' from the mangy shrubbery of my best self, or something equally purple. Metaphorical.
My gaze fell on the gregarious mint. It is so generous with itself that it is spreading across the lawn. I'm going to yank it all out.