Up three stairs and through the front door, over the brand new bamboo flooring, the fabulous Kazakhstani rug, through living room number one, around the corner, down 12 stairs, past kitchen/dining room, through living room number two, down another flight, through study to the deck, down two more flights, and here, at last, the garden.  Poor orphan, though not as neglected as the surrounding jungle of blackberry and anise.  Directly overhead, on spindly pylons, the deck.

Please, no earthquake today.

It takes 6 trips to get everything in, the tools, plants, irrigation gizmos.  I’m in praying mood: please, let me not have forgotten anything.

I’m here to do a fluff up, to create the illusion of love and care.  The house is going on the market next week.  Who would buy a house so precariously perched?  Not me.  I don’t care if you can see into Nevada.

I have it easy compared to the peons who installed the garden, such as it is, who had to battle the anise and blackberry and tote in yards of soil, stones, plants, etc. The lavenders and the agapanthus flourish.  A lemon tree with some water might perk up.  Roundabout, the anise is making a vigorous comeback.

Damn.  I have forgotten the pick.


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