It's spring.
Like all flower loving folk around the country, I've been gardening.
We live in a rented terraced house and there's only a tiny garden in the teeny-weeny backyard, so it's not such hard work.
I wasn't always a gardener. My only experiences of growing plants are looking after morning glories as an assignment during summer vacation in elementary, or trying to grow some dandelions and Chinese milk vetch in my parents's place about ten years ago (which I succeeded in, but my grandmother weeded them being unaware of my intentions).
I'm still not a devoted gardener; I am rather a Sunday gardener, but I really enjoy it.
The best part of it is sticking my fingers in soil, getting my nails dirty and not caring about it at all. The smell of the soil takes me right back for years.
It reminds me of the bed of Chinese milk vetch I used to lay myself on when I was a little girl.
The butterflies above my face in the blue sky.
Listening to the buzzing sound of the honey bees as I was comfortably falling asleep.
I could almost smell the sun of those days when I pull out the weeds around my hydrangea that survived the long winter.
Someday, when I have my own house and land, I want to grow all these wild flowers I like.
Daisies, buttercups, dandelions, clovers and Chinese milk vetches.
And I want to lie down there and take a nap.
