A life’s work is like drawing in sand. 

I garden, I plan.

The beauty I create has a shelf life, an expiration date.

It is the kind that must be enjoyed in the moment. The birds who fly, perch, and choose a mate, understand this. I take my cue from them.

The scent of lilac fills the air, the roses will be next. But scent can’t be saved like we put up berries in jams and jellies. 

I place markers with the names of flowers, herbs, and vegetables I have grown from seed next to the plants as I set them in the garden. Like the sun invariably bleaches the names from the markers, the names fade in my memory as well. 

My daughter’s boyfriend bragged the other day that, “Josie knows the names of all the flowers.”

This is my legacy.