There is a deafening silence on both ends of the line as the
meaning and the interpretation of our respective statements settle above the threshold of
our consciousness.
I can almost hear Mrs. Flower’s feverish thoughts bouncing inside her head, suddenly splitting with a PR headache of unimaginable
proportions:
OMG, we’ve asked a
delusional hallucinating lunatic to run our gardening workshop?!!
I, on my part, am reeling from the revelation that there
could be someone – anyone – who works in the Place Where Miracles Happen Every
Day who doesn’t hear the Gardener. The
discovery shatters my gardening world (or at least what I thought I knew of it).
It feels like a large terra cotta pot full of wilted geraniums has landed on my
head. The weight of the flying debris from the wreckage is crushing.
Mrs. Flowers appears to recover from the impact of our
colliding assumptions much faster than I do. She excuses herself politely,
promises that we’ll be in touch and, to my great relief, ends the conversation.
The gravitational pull of the geranium
pot on my head seems
to attract the walls of our suburban house which are now threatening to cave in
on me. I must step outside to get some
fresh air. I stumble out of the door, one question reverberating like the siren of an emergency vehicle somewhere inside my brain:
How is it possible
that something that promised to be so incredibly good turn out to be so horribly bad?
Never ever have I needed the Gardener more desperately.
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