Our yard is a mixture of our personalities, my husband's and mine. He likes straight lines, defining edges, fences. I like curving lines with an overflow of plants cascading onto the walkway or lawn. He trims the forsythia into a boxy hedge. I tell him the blooms would be better if he let it twist and tumble like it wants. He prefers factual conversation, a logical progression of information that has a purpose. I speak when the thought arises, often just a comment with no point except observation. I speculate, I wonder. This is uncomfortable for him. "What's the point?" he says? "Does there need to be a point?" I ask. He has a system for mowing the lawn: he alternates between vertical, horizontal and diagonal passes each time he mows. He keeps the lawn cropped like a military crew cut. I prefer the tangly length that gets caught between my toes when I wander in bare feet, the kind that folds under me without scratching when I lie on my back to stare at the c...
Life is a series of snapshots meant to be recorded in words. A writer and photographer shares hers.