It is a rainy, foggy Sunday. Before Andy drove me to the prison, we stopped at a picnic area a couple of kilometres out of town. It is situated in perfect little cove of a small beach, smooth bedrock and views of the Manitoutuk islands.
I was delighted to see a clump of daisies growing in a crack between the rocks. Also little blue flowers that looked like bells, and purple flowers that looked a cross between violets and snapdragons and many other miniscule little flowering plants.
“I miss gardening so much.” I sighed. Lugging flats of shasta daisies, impatiens, begonias, geraniums, and the pansies to plant around the fish pond was a seasonal rite for me.
Tonight I came home from my shift to find a pot of daisies on the coffee table. Andy had found an abandoned flower pot in a building he and his students were working on. He drove back out to the cove with a shovel and dug up a clump of daisies and put them in the pot.
Now I have a garden inside.