Angélique Babineau
Managing Editor
Crouched in the grass, my fingers steadily excavate the ground, making space for violets
and their heart-shaped leaves. My fingernails are filthy with dirt; I loathe wearing gloves. A string of my strawberry blonde reckless hair falls in front of my left eye. I brush it back; I must focus. If it is true that we each are born with a distinct talent, mine is undoubtedly gardening. In honor of this new era, I have decided to replace the thorny red roses that once decorated the front of my house with charming deep purple African violets. As I am busy with my flowers, my neighbor emerges from behind her car, smiling. She exclaims, “I don’t know how you do it! I must know your secret for growing such beautiful plants!” If only she knew the best fertilizer is a severed husband’s head. Perhaps that is what you get for making me trade my violets for roses.
