I never considered myself a gardener. In fact, I can’t stand planting anything. However, I am good at watering my children. It’s very simple. Watering my children equals love. I know that because when I hug, I get a smile. When I kiss, I get a smile. And, when I hug and kiss, I get a really big smile. That’s how I know that A plus B equals C. It’s the water that does it all.

To start, I fill the pots with nurturing soil, provide an ongoing dose of fertilizer and water them daily. I let them dry out occasionally, before coming back around again. But the dryness only lasts for a short while, and it is usually due to excessive sun.

I never got the same kind of watering as a kid. In fact, it’s a miracle that I didn’t shrivel up and die, at all. But, the dearth of it, the lack of sustenance is the one thing that gave me the steely resolve and determined fortitude to live. It also provided the largest ongoing bucket of tears that a person could find. I sometimes think that it’s my tears that supply the enormous, nearly endless amount of water I provide for my children. I swear, sometimes, that I can taste the salt.

I believe that my water is good and clear and crisp. It runs exactly where it is poured. I rarely ever need to mop up the excess; it seems to go straight to the roots where it’s most needed. I sometimes wonder if I’ve wet the roots enough or even too much (my father said that I was a child who needed too much), but the body of the plants seem firm, secure and tender; the tendrils luscious and bright. I can’t imagine that any child needs too much love, especially mine. I suppose if they do, I’ll work on finding the drain.