Of flowers and unrequited love (and parentheses)
Unrequited love is no fun. I know, because I suffer from it. I love fresh flowers. Fresh flowers don't love me. I can't grow them. At all.
Every spring, I plant cute, little seedlings (flowerlings?) in the long window box that sits on the front of our house facing the street for all to admire. Except most years, there isn't much to admire. The wavy petunias I put in with high hopes failed to wave. They just sat there, sulking.
Read Molly's Ink Spots in the Aug. 15 Advance.