This is Butchart Gardens, the lovely place where my mother wouldn’t get out of the car when she was my age. She told my aunt, “It’s too bourgeois.” Now, she has taken me here on a 24 mile bike ride to see these charming landscapes that are in fact somewhat bourgeois, but I don’t mind. It is a garden none-the-less, and vibrantly inviting.
I took a picture and wrote something – they were separate affairs, but I like them together now.
My skin has freckles. More than there are flowers in the garden down the street, more than there are coins in my purse, more than there are words on a page. Maybe people threw paint at me when I was a child. Maybe I’m just physically indecisive and couldn’t pick just one color. Whatever happened, I feel decorated. Skin is bizarre, and kinda beautiful.