Cardinale Montano

“To mow or not to mow?” That is the question.

For some of us, this “garden” thing we do is as much about love as it is an exercise in self-forgiveness.

When I was five years old, my father taught me how to whistle. I felt pretty special, sitting on the bench seat of his Cadillac, in my favorite dress with the blue flowers.

With just one bite of a freshly picked strawberry, it is possible to eradicate any residual weather-induced trauma suffered from a cold, drawn-out spring.

With the bedroom windows open to the cool night air, early morning birdsong slips between the curtains, tripping lightly across the room to the edge of my bed.

My mother’s hands have shaped at least a thousand loaves of bread. She learned this from her mother, who learned it from her mother, long before.

The growth in April, which is often sharp in taste and bitter, is the one we are given to eat before we taste the berries of July.

“To mow or not to mow?” That is the question.

For some of us, this “garden” thing we do is as much about love as it is an exercise in self-forgiveness.

When I was five years old, my father taught me how to whistle. I felt pretty special, sitting on the bench seat of his Cadillac, in my favorite dress with the blue flowers.

With just one bite of a freshly picked strawberry, it is possible to eradicate any residual weather-induced trauma suffered from a cold, drawn-out spring.

With the bedroom windows open to the cool night air, early morning birdsong slips between the curtains, tripping lightly across the room to the edge of my bed.

My mother’s hands have shaped at least a thousand loaves of bread. She learned this from her mother, who learned it from her mother, long before.

The growth in April, which is often sharp in taste and bitter, is the one we are given to eat before we taste the berries of July.