You know what the definition of hope is? Going to the greenhouse year after year thinking that this year, surely, you can manage to keep some of the 56 plants alive that come home with you.
The vision in your head teems with flourishing green, luscious flowers in bright colors.
The vision in your head mainly just stays there.
After a week, the plants are looking nice, but not quite as fluffy and lovely.
By two weeks, the spindly look starts. Maybe half-drowning the plants will help.
By three weeks, if there is more green left on the plant than brown, you're doing well.
By four weeks, those poor plants are giving up the ghost, having exhausted all efforts in keeping some form of life in themselves.
By five weeks, we think we can do better with the next batch, so off we go to the greenhouse to exercise our never-dying hope.
Well, this is my story, anyway; maybe not yours.
My plants survived vacation fairly well because of the plentiful rain this area had during that time.
I'm starting the plant prayer for the potted geranium and some other spindly thing with pink flowers, the name of which escapes me--rather, I never had the name stuck to me, both of which are potted in Miracle Gro in one old, green, ceramic pot from the days when bright lime green was a fashionable color at the Walmart garden center.
The lovely potted arrangement that I should just have to maintain is looking a bit neglected. I do water it... sometimes.
My roses actually are growing and blooming. Quite a surprise for someone with my track record.
My poison ivy garden is flourishing, drinking up the poison we feed it as if it were a tonic.
No matter the state of my yard in real life, hope flourishes that it one day will start to resemble the picture in my head.