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97 My Father Gardening in Heaven The฀flowers฀are฀no฀taller฀here. The฀cosmos฀carry฀their฀saucers of฀burgundy฀and฀white,฀the฀fuchsias dangle฀their฀puckered฀blossoms no฀farther฀down฀than฀they฀do฀on฀earth. Every฀flower฀adds฀its฀promiscuity of฀scent,฀its฀audacity฀of฀color to฀the฀unencumbered฀hues฀of฀heaven. My฀father฀imagines฀snow-on-the-mountain spreading฀across฀the฀clouds,฀succulents thriving฀in฀the฀fierce฀sunlight,฀bleeding heart฀drooping฀in฀the฀perfect฀air.฀Here there฀are฀no฀slugs฀peeling฀the฀leaves, no฀aphids฀ravenous฀in฀a฀flower’s฀veins. The฀days฀are฀bereft฀of฀drought, the฀nights฀solicit฀no฀unwelcome฀frost. But฀my฀father,฀sleeping฀under฀the฀apple฀blossoms, dreams฀of฀spider฀mites,฀leaf฀hoppers, and฀lace฀bugs฀cutting฀across฀his฀every฀plant. He฀wakes฀up฀shaking฀and฀reaching฀for฀a฀spray. Adam฀turns฀from฀his฀hoeing,฀smiles.฀Eve waves฀out฀the฀window.฀My฀father฀nods, stands฀up,฀takes฀his฀rake฀and฀pulls฀it฀gently over฀the฀straight฀and฀narrow฀furrows he’s฀loosened฀in฀the฀soft,฀sweet฀loam. ...

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