There was never any question that we’d eventually need to leave Brooklyn — that our modest rental would grow too small, too rickety, too run-down for two parents who worked from home and a baby who’d soon start exploring the gaps between the floor and the wall. When that baby was born, of course, we had no idea how, and how soon, we’d have to go.
The truth is, we haven’t had time to miss Brooklyn amidst the chaos of our departure. But now that it’s spring — though I can’t believe my good fortune to have landed in this lovely Hudson River Valley town, and though I’m thrilled to observe the hyacinths and irises poking their way out of the ground in our new yard — I really miss my garden. The lovely Rose of Sharon we inherited, the Siberian irises and poppies that I splurged on at the garden store… (The termite colony and six-inch leopard slugs I’m just as glad to have at a comfortable distance.)
I always assumed I would bring a few plants with us whenever we moved, and would occasionally indulge in a bit of pragmatic self-importance as I reasoned through which ones. The blueberries were in a wooden container, which was dicey given the termites. The roots of the irises were knotted deep into the ground. The Black-eyed Susans and daisies were easy to transport, but also easy to sow anew. And pragmatism aside, I knew it would be nice to let the house’s next tenants enjoy the surprise of watching what came up in the spring.
I trust they are, perhaps with the added awe of nature’s post-storm resilience.