Green is the color of my soul.

 

Monet's Bridge.

I am ill. It feels physical and yet, I know it is so much more. It rained today, which brought a smile and great relief to these long days of intense heat. I do love summer, but this week I have worked extremely hard in the garden, detailed work, like weeding and deadheading and spraying for insects. Yes, green is my favorite color, the color of my soul, and I suppose that is about summer and grass and all the flowers and plants, the leaves on the trees. Monet had a beautiful garden. Darwin had a beautiful garden. Dickinson, too. Shelley loved Nature. When I go outside, I always have this strange feeling when I come in the house, as though I have left something behind. Sometimes I look down and find a blade of grass stuck between my toes. Yes, I often go barefoot. And I smile at it, as though I have brought a piece of what I love with me.

Tomorrow is John's birthday. Going on six years without him. We had separate interest and did spend a lot of time separated from one another. But I always knew wherever he was and whatever he was doing, he busy and content and alive. And he loved me. He knew this about me, too. But John and I shared a love of gardening. The summers were ours.

And now there is this hole I cannot fill.

Perhaps I have been too busy, too happy, and now, I must be otherwise. And so, I am ill.