If geraniums could talk, the ones in my pot might have had as their last words: "I don't care what the books say, I don't like heat." They turned yellow, folded up their leaves and died.
I barely keep up my part of this floral street with my two pots on each side of the door but now was the time to make a bit more effort. At the marché I found these beautiful begonias (?) but in carrying them home one of the flower-ladened branches broke off.
Instead of throwing it out, I brought it upstairs and put it in a vase, but this morning it succumbed to its injuries and I gave it an informal burial in the poubelle.
The replanted begonias (?) are flourishing.
I am thinking of my high school reunion coming up next month. Some of my classmates are still flourishing. Others have died in accidents from cancer and on the battlefield. And in that thought I found a metaphor for life and death.
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