Baby Love

A long time ago in a land far away a forty-year-old housewife decided to take her life in her own hands and open a business out of her little farmhouse. From the cramped, green house she toted a small floral tin out every morning to the greenhouse close by. That greenhouse was made from old picture and storm windows, and sat on wood runners. It was filled with tables, covered in flats of bedding plants that the housewife called babies. She started the babies in the basement of the green house, under flourescent lighting, and then moved the babies to the greenhouse when they were bold enough to keep their heads up. She talked to them, and strung a power line out to the greenhouse to play music for them when she couldn't be with them, and they thrived. Her mere touch made them strong and sure of their climb in height.

The housewife began this adventure when her children were leaving the baby stage and were deep in their own roots, exploring the air around them. She began raising new babies specifically for that reason--the old ones would be wandering away shortly. And she loved to nurture, to feed, to give to something that would go out and nurture again.

Not so long ago, in a land closer to here, a thirty-one-year-old spinster decided to take her life in her own hands and move to a magical land of silicon, surf and fog. She moved from apartment to apartment, ever closer to the biggest body of water she had ever seen, asking her muses for inspiration just from the wonders around her. She read from great muses as well, but everything she touched did not thrive--it escaped. All the tales and wonders faded with the wind from her fingertips, and the spinster began to doubt that they ever truly existed. She flew too close to the sun from the mountains, and the sun's rays burnt her tender, easily bruised to the touch. Everyone wanted to touch her, to feed from her, to drink the last of her wonder. Her love of words faded to gray newsprint over the years, and increasingly she lived to work for the betterment of things that didn't bring her wonder.

I wonder how the fairy tale ends.

Sweet dreams, dear reader.