I was cleaning up the vegetable beds last fall, a messy process full of soggy rotting tomatoes and fruit flies. At some point in the day I realized that my garden claw was nowhere to be found. I checked the roof (I’ve left it there before), to no avail.
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| I don’t even know. |
I suspect it is currently being composted by the city of Portland, having made its way into the green yard debris bin.
I recently misplaced my favorite ring that I bought at Chichen Itza. The ring fits me loosely in the morning and snugly by the end of the day, which means it’s never quite comfortable on my hand. I told Greg that I couldn’t find it anywhere and that I was “pretty sure I did something weird with it.”
As I was readying to weed this weekend I slipped my hands into my gardening gloves and made a fist to loosen the mud dried on them, which caused pain to flare across my middle finger. I pulled out my hand and there was my ring, which had slipped right onto my finger without me noticing.
I ran into the house, laughing and laughing, so I could tell Greg. This was the same morning I freaked out because I saw a common robin for the first time (he was unmoved in both cases). Say what you will, everything is more magical when you go through life not really paying attention.
And then later that day I misplaced my weed popper. So it goes.
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