Purple Iris

I had a friend once when I lived in Yakima. I was young then. People say I’m young now, but I’m not, not really. But then I was. And then, my daughter was three. Now…well never mind. But then, this friend came to visit because she said she wanted to learn how to pot from me. I had taken some classes in high school and one in college. I wanted to be a potter. I loved having my hands in clay. So there I was–living on this mini-farm, an acre surrounded by acres and acres of cows and orchards and bare hills, and there I was with a chicken coop that I’d converted into a potting studio. I taught her how to pot. She had horses and a husband she wasn’t sure she liked. She said one day that the purple iris that grew along the chicken shed were pretty. I said, she didn’t like iris, she’d told me that on another day. So there we were, the beginning of the end. I liked iris. I liked how they smelled like violets. I liked how they began to melt on the edges as they aged. The chickens walked in between them. They scratched around for worms. It was hot there. It was summer. The cows munched grass. Mostly I was happy. Well, somewhat. I liked potting. I liked being a mama. I liked the country.

~ by posyflowers on March 29, 2008.