I love my bougainvillea. I grew it. I trimmed it and fed it and tended to it. It literally made me gasp from its beauty. Had some trouble a while back with a tribe of invisible viscous bugs that were trying to eat it but found the cure for the attack from the smartest person I will ever know: the lanky guy that works at the nursery on 16th and Ocean Park.
“You gotta go at ’em direct,” he said, preparing me for battle.
My mother has always had a green thumb. She can make anything grow. She can save a creeping charley that’s been abandoned in an alley. She can nurse a fragile fern back to life using cotton and tape. She employs Q-Tips when African Violets are looking anemic. She just couldn’t transfer that care to humans.
But I’ve always admired her ability to bring dying things back to life.
When there is any kind of weather to speak of here, the first thing I do is run up to my roof and watch the clouds. I watch the clouds because, as a backdrop for my bougainvillea, they are magical. The scarier the better. The gloomier the lovelier. Because my bougainvillea looks the loveliest when highlighted by turbulence. Just like my pieced-together-with-glue mother and just like me.
God Bless Miracle Grow,
Veronica the Petrified Yet Hopeful Veteran