Dear Jasmina

Have I already mentioned that john works at a garden centre? Well, he does. And as his older, plant-loving, Lacoste-shopping sister, I get a discount on plants. I’ve considered creating a rent contract in which he is bound to work at a greenhouse every summer of his life here, but then it could kill his future career. And if he is to become a pilot (re-read IF), I’ll settle for a discount on flights.

The other day he was saying how many annuals they are throwing away… “Heck, I could bring you home a tray, if you wanted!” And although our yard already has a fair amount of flowers, I’m sure there are still places I could find for petunias, begonias, or even geraniums… So I said “Sure!” The next day, he brings me a tray of flowers. “Great! Thanks!” I tell him as I’m feeding Marie-Hélène… “I’ll check them out later.” Then I tell him to wash. I try not to nag too much…

I later go see the flowers he’s left on our porch, hoping for pink, or red, or white… and find these…

So. So? These are marigolds. In fact, I forgot the name and had to ask John to refresh my memory. I’ve never planted a marigold in my life. These are those yellow pom-pom flowers that deer won’t eat. And they don’t smell like flowers, unless you were to compare them to the corpse flower.

“They’re not awful…” I said to a friend who was visiting, and who also doesn’t like them. “What do we have against them?” She didn’t know. So, we abandoned the philosophy, settled for the fact that it reminded us of grandmas, and had desert.

I love you Grandma, I’m happy you liked marigolds, but it’s kind of like shag carpet… Soft, pretty, colorful, but I couldn’t bring myself to having any of it.