A Cold Spring

John had me choose a few plants for Mother’s Day, neither of us dreaming we’d have yet another cold spell. I brought three pots inside, and each night he’d cover up one outside. There was one advantage of having an impatiens on the kitchen counter. I greatly enjoyed the bright red flowers close up. They were as cheerful as could be and seemed to be saying thank you for not having to shiver outside.

Two days in a row we saw neighbor Warren’s garden swathed in white. John remembered I called neighbor Dawn’s covered plant a Mother’s Day ghost.

He asked, “Do you see lots of ghosts here?”

“No,” I replied. “This is tent city.”

A garden bed with sheets but no blankets or pillows

Warren always has an impressive scarecrow, and every year I wave at it a few times. This year he put up the scarecrow after we walked in the morning. As we drove past later, I lifted my hand as high as the window before I realized it was not a human. I must ask him if the scary man has a name. I’m sure we would be on a first-name basis.