The fluttering white cloud I’d seen through my window (which, I could now see, bore a pattern of faded pink roses) was actually a set of sagging queen-sized sheets, so heavy on their line that they practically grazed the ground. They brushed my face as I ducked under them, and dodged several swinging pairs of jeans, to see the few little grass shoots that had emerged overnight.
The balmy, sunny weather continued over the next week, and so did the loaded clotheslines. The laundry blocked out the sun, and after a few days, my little blades of grass had wilted and died. The following Saturday I considered starting over, but I felt too discouraged. What was the point of having a garden I’d never be able to sit in, or even see, for all the drooping towels and sweatshirts?
That afternoon I gathered up my garden hose, rake, spade and trowels, and a half-empty bag of fertilizer, and left them on the sidewalk in front of my building. (True to form, the invisible neighborhood scavengers made off with them within a half-hour.) And that evening, feeling resigned—maybe even a little relieved—I decided to enjoy the weather like a city person: by taking a spot on the front stoop, and getting to know my neighbors.
