19th May 2020
Our days are taking on some form of a routine. Around seven o’clock Will wakes up to the cats pawing at him for food, an hour later than their pre-quarantine schedule. I’ll crack open my eyes long enough to register that the espresso machine is warming up, and either Zoey or Finley sits peering over my books at me. Hard to tell when your sight is blurred by sleep and the land of dreams calls you back.
Half an hour later I wake up to Will pulling a shot of espresso for his americano, and I take that as my cue to spend some time with him before work. Once he leaves, I settle into a chair on the front porch with the rest of my coffee and devote the next few hours writing and editing. I won’t leave the tranquil of the front porch until the midday sun becomes too strong for my comfort. Usually by then I’ve written an entry in my journal, or a post has been edited in its entirety.
Today I write to the smell of freshly treated lumber.
With the anticipation of summer, my afternoons are occupied with helping my mother in the backyard. This year she’s getting around to the changes she’s been putting off for a while. We’ve been working in stages: first clearing the large boulders from the pond in preparation for its expansion, then digging out the ground along the side of the house for the relocation of our vegetable garden. There’s a couple of other projects to undertake this summer, but for now, we start here.
For the longest time my help ended after planning, brainstorming and shopping. When it came to helping out with the labour I’d sit aside in the shade with a book or writing materials and get lost in my own world. It’s not that I didn’t want to help, I did, but helping my mother always felt like I was getting in the way. So, I got out of the way.
When I moved from a large green space to my Lachine apartment a form of deprivation and anxiety settled in my gut. We had rented a beautiful apartment with plenty of natural light, but the views from our balcony and windows was a series of stark grey buildings. We kept our curtains pulled closed our first winter, there wasn’t much we could do since we made the move in late December. But when spring and warm weather came around I turned our narrow, six-foot long balcony into an urban jungle. And I did so every spring we lived in that apartment, except this spring.
I had been looking forward to spending my mornings barefoot on the jute rug, watering my plants and sipping coffee at the bistro table. Will and I’s decision to move ended my mastery of my own garden, and brought a tinge of disappointment. But I’d grown confident in my skills and know-how, so there was no way I was going to sit out on this landscaping job.
This afternoon, my mother and I start on building the elevated garden box with the lumber she picked up last night. This time I’m not in the way.
