Some days we leave this house where we live, unbelievable, as soon as it comes in 45 years.
Perhaps a new McMansion will keep us away, snatch us and block the winter rising I look from our sin, cup of coffee in hand. We may decide to move to children, instead of visiting them for the paths.
Or maybe my husband or I have a bad fall, make even three steps in our front door not resolved. Maybe that’s the moment we go.
My mother stayed at her house past the point of being able to dispersal with a lifetime family pictures, books and so on. So, like Royalty in Egypt, he hurts everything. Nice Yorkers stacks are his “intended” to read full of a whole bookcase in his bedroom. The 1940s Toby Jugs He was collected in Victoria, Canada, as a young navy wave officer who shook, wrapped in bubbles, in a closet, others warmly together in the 1994 Northridge.
Too many “encouraging happiness” for him, or at least one duty to preserve.
I am determined to live lighter – surely die less – and I have done some progress that gives things. But my husband struggled with a larger transfer decision: know when and where, that’s the trick.
Our references and the recent deaths of friends inflict our lives here in Los Angeles with a valuable one, as climbing summer, center in my small garden.
The Meyer Lemons ripened into large, tasteful softballs. Valencia flowers shrink in countless little green oranges. That tree is mainly with us in this house and remains better than a few years in the local Bank in the Food-Bank of the Food-Bank rivers 500 pounds of ripe fruit.
Jasmine flower lays our brick plants. The spare scent of trumps suffer nocturnal moths in bright yellow cone petals. Taking the trash after dark sometimes feels like a visit to Bloomingdale’s aromatic fragrance.
My night-blooming cereus, once a small plant, now the size of Audrey II from the “small shop of horrors,” is in the third round of buds. Pollinators come calling as afternoon arrival and 8-inch flowers waiting for their white petals. Sometimes a dozen or more flowers are open to a night – like the fourth finals of the Hulywood Finals, minus “1812 Overture.”
Of course, I can buy fresh lemons and flowers wherever we can end up living. But there is such a quoteian joy for me IT lemon and that flowers.
I am a negligent gardener. Rains always seed a carpet of grasses; My lettuce in the winter lettuce before I can notice. Nude places require new plants. I have to spend a strong week out there, joint, fertilizing and scorn. However things usually grow.
I miss the trees in our 1948 tract. Jacaranda blooms a couple of blocks of dust cars and makes a lavender canopy. In the fall, small yellow flowers from the golden rains in our street.
However, my husband and I began to feel old here. Young families replace neighbors who die or transferred. The little girls in pink leotards twirl their weeds. Halloween is a big deal on our way again. All as it should be.
Our fellow old, long-old friends, more walking in the streets. But the ramps for wheelchairs and firm rails show some front porches.
Local real-estate agents stop tall timers to sell. Simplify your life, they are studying suggested. Transfer a condo or close to your children before it is “late.”
I’m still finally, yet every year I feel the decision approaches.
Children and young grandchildren live in the northwest, we love, and there with a full time we can be part of their lives. However, in our age, act means to stop not only in this house but, realistic, any house and, a garden.
How to forget my weed a little giving.
An old neighbor planted sweet peas every year so the grapes beat his link to the chain line chain. The spring of his death, his home vacant and his presence that was annoyed, a mass flowers showing all, all colors and delicious colors.
When we continue, I hope that the next gardener will enjoy the magenta alstroeemeria flowers that come from every spring, nothing is blind. Or maybe as the Agapanthus blooms – those who sweep the lavender balls – slowly against his family’s car as he returns to the passage of uprising.
Molly Selvin, a former staff writer for Times in Los Angeles and Editor-In-Chief of the California Suprolan in the Social Society Soctorical Soctorical Soctorical Society. This article is made of fellowship Public Square Zócalo.
