By Maryanna Gabriel
Where there is life, there is hope. The squash starts are in a jury-rigged plant hospital in makeshift pots on the deck. Not much left really, but there is still a hint of green. Interviews with fellow gardeners indicate the slug invasion is pervasive. So, it isn't just me. The eggshells, the diatomaceous earth, even plastic domes have proven to be useless fail-stops. But this post is not about the perils of planting. It is about two chairs. And the two chairs I sold yesterday made me think of a painting my mother did. Where that painting is now is beyond me.
When I sold two chairs yesterday, I was unprepared for the emotional wallop. They were good chairs, still with labels, and well constructed. The handy practical sort and camping type. Nice ochre colour. They were bought for a vision, a dream, that I would enjoy riverside reveries with someone I love dearly. But that dream, that vision, never came to pass. That someone failed to show. So the chairs were folded and put away. Life went on.
The thing is, I didn't understand the chairs, the inanimate objects, were the keepers of residual grief. Of course they should go to someone to enjoy. So I was unsuspecting as I took the money. When the wallop came I was unprepared. Grief threatened to swallow me whole.
At first, I didn't get it. I couldn't figure out what was wrong. It took some time but I traced what was coming up to the chairs and hence the memory. Who knew chairs could be so tricky?
The upshot is, that like squash plants, there is still hope. And so it goes. Sometimes we just have to cling to the dear life that is left.
