I sit in my favorite teashop but look around as though I don’t recognize it. Somebody came in and changed everything. The old orange walls that looked as though a drunk had experimented with sponge painting have been painted over in soothing green. Covering the dirty brown Berber carpet are oriental area rugs. The taupe chairs have been replaced with bright red ones hollowed out like cracked nutshells. I’m in one of these red chairs now, by the window, drinking smoky Russian Caravan tea. It’s my second steeping because I want to prolong my stay in the tea shop, so I make-do with this tepid second steeping and sip slowly.I read a book on Midwest perennials in anticipation of spring. What should I plant? I picture an English garden alongside a path of paving stones winding its way to the front entrance, or maybe a secret garden at the side by the chimney, with figurines of sprites hidden among the flora. I just moved into this picturesque brick home in the Fall, on Manor Drive, in a town called Golden Valley; it even sounds like an imagined place. The prior owner covered the grounds in gardens, so maybe I won’t need to plant anything. It is now early Spring and the first few signs of growth have broken soil; all of these pockets of gardens are ready to wake up. I feel a bit like a parent with a dozen infants stirring in their cribs, about to wake up screaming and demanding attention. Maybe I should make a run for it.
I get distracted by the sounds of a mother and young daughter that take a table beside me. The little girl has a whispery voice, like the daughter Zuzu in “It’s A Wonderful Life,” who says to her father, “But I’m not sleepy.”
“Mommy, want me to do a magic trick?” Brilliant smile of baby teeth and dimpled cheeks, and she makes her hands disappear inside her mittens. The mother looks under the table, under the chair, inside her teacup while the little girl giggles like mad.
I take another sip of cold tea and think of gardens.
