Living in a greenhouse
If I were to live in a greenhouse, I would have fresh flowers in my home every day.
Guests would enter through my weathered — but still entirely proper — yellow-painted front door, and be greeted by such an abundance of greenery that they would be happily taken aback.
I would offer them honey-sweetened dandelion tea, and show off my still-developing coffee plant, explaining it would be at least five years before there were any beans of which to speak. We would agree that coffee is almost always preferable, but that the dandelion tea was still quite nice.
Together we would examine the herbs and leafy greens and peppers, then the lilies and violets and roses. We would plan for a dinner of fresh vegetable chili.
My tidy succulent jungle would sit on a shelf like a sturdy, sweet promise. These fellows would be holding down the fort for some time to come; solid companions with too many opinions.
My guests and I would sit upon lounging chairs in the very best afternoon sun patch and discuss literature and favored music. With the sun journeying along from one window pane to the next, we might comment on the quiet ways of changing seasons, and the particular glee witnessed in the dance of fallen leaves caught up in the wind.
All of my beloved books would be stacked upon the floor, climbing the walls like their neighboring vines. Mismatched furniture, photos, and trinkets from traveling adventures would strategically decorate the place; little flower buds (and let’s be honest, maybe some spilling-over potting soil) would be not so decoratively present as well.
Shortly thereafter, following second helpings of veggie-packed chili and skillet cornbread, the sun would finally set, and the stars peek out, and a little stargazing would certainly commence.
With a glass of red wine in hand — a multitude of crickets chatting outside — the day would wind down. And before long, with my guests having bid farewell, I would switch off the twinkle lights that framed the perimeter of the little greenhouse, and say goodnight.
SIGNED, anya elise
**This story brought to you by an overactive imagination, running wild in a little Virginia greenhouse last month.**