Crisp, sunburned leaves. A shrivelled stem gasping for water. Grey, sandy soil that repels moisture—much like my legs in summer. Toss in a grassless lawn for dramatic effect, and you’ve got a snapshot of my gardening track record.

I once thought it was a brilliant idea to plant baby fruit trees during a 40+ degree January heatwave, straight into what could technically be described as “dirt,” but more closely resembled beach sand. Yes, I was that person. Of the three trees I planted, one heroically died and was respectfully composted. The cause of death? Possibly the soil, the sun, the lack of water—or maybe the tree just took one look at its new home and decided, “Yeah, nah.”

From laughing

To screaming and crying

Feeling confident and on top of it

To low and flat

I’ll just go sit back in my corner….

Wait! 

I’m not made for that

Have you ever seen that series of photos which show elderly people looking in the mirror and seeing the reflection of their much younger selves? Nurses, soldiers, young brides; I find those photos utterly heartbreaking. Within the decaying body and mind is a vibrant youth screaming, “I was young once.”

I’m writing this on the cusp of my forty-second birthday. Only in medieval times would I be considered ‘old’. I have relatively good health and a lot to be thankful for, but recently, I’ve found myself looking at photos with melancholy welling up inside me.