My grandpa was a gardener. scissors snapping, feet throbbing. An old fashioned gardener. My mother picked up on this quite a bit. I'd watch her quietly make her way out the door, gloves on hand. shovel in mind. She. Was an artist. An artist who solely based her gifts on the fruits my grandma harvested for her. She was the woman who smelled of mother. My grandpa a tired gardener. I'd get home to find him sitting on the sofa, my grandma usually in the kitchen tossing pans and silverware in a rhythmic matter. My grandma a leader. Tough hands well built for caring. A face that never seemed to age, rich and earthy. My grandma. A woman who taught me to stand my ground, no matter oh how wrong I was. My mom an artist. My grandpa a gardener. And my grandma a leader. As for Me? Good question I'm me a whole jumble mumble of who knows what. Me. A generation. Me a flower of the richest root.

- dG