In one corner of our front yard, there is a twig which my wife, K, holds dear to her heart. She refuses to believe it's just a twig, of course; to her, it's a potential hydrangea. This is, indeed, a beautiful flower; but this twig is not beautiful. In fact, it's barely visible, hidden under a wad of pachysandra.
I think it originally came from my mother; it was a gift that came too late in the season to plant, but was planted anyhow, and hasn't bloomed since. K sees leaves on it. I see moss.
Before I went out to trim the hedges and mow the lawn today, she implored me to not step on the twig. Step on it? I can't even see it! Nonetheless, I gave it a wide berth; so wide, in fact, that that section of the hedge wasn't trimmed.
Even so, I'm positive the damn thing won't grow, and I'll be to blame, somehow...
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