the last blue iris

 This morning I woke up when the dog started moaning--daybreak, somewhere between 5.30 and 6.30, sunlight filtering through the curtains. Weekends, R. and I have a deal: I let the dog out to pee when he first moans, and then an hour or so later, he gets up to feed the animals. Weekdays, I get up earliest and take care of everyone. This morning, the AC was churning and Snake, our big orange tabby, did what he always does when he hears my eyelids twitch: crawl up on my bladder and meow loudly so I will wake up and feed him.  I got up, peed, let the olden dog out, checked my phone. There, in my Facebook Memories, was a message from R. from 9 years ago, soon after we'd met at a MFA alumni conference and a) he was enamored with another woman, b) I told him I would kissed him if he asked, c)he told me I was too young for him and d)he butt-dialed (so he says) me at 3 AM the night before we all had to fly home. Anyway. I woke up this morning, groggy from our martinis the night before,...

 My parents gardened. My mother's realm was the front yard: hostas and nicotiana, impatiens and pansies in pots. My father's realm was the side yard: zucchini and tomatoes and cucumbers. As a child and a teen, I had scant interest in any of it, except the fact that when the hostas that lined our front walk bloomed, if you squeezed the flowers before they fully opened, they popped like bubble tape. Except for the tomatoes and cucumbers I would eat doused in garlic salt, still sun-warmed.  Then I got married the first time, and planted a garden in the shady spot between driveways: snakeweed and astilbe and things I can no longer remember; echinacea and black eyed susans in the one sunny spot in front of the herbie curbies (Michigan-ese for garbage/recycling bins). Then the garden on Gross Pointe street, the first house I   bought on my own (allium, black eyed susans, morning glory curling up the downspout)--garden the neighbors wrote me anonymous notes about those are weeds...