May 26, 2007
Betsy wanted to pick flowers, only trouble was she didnít have a garden. She lived in an apartment complex on the fifth floor via a clunky gate-activated elevator that sometimes broke and forced her down the dark flights, past her smelly neighbors and their dried fish, pasta primavera, chocolate chip cookies; each floor, its own smell. At the ground level, a box of dirt stood untended. If she planted, would her care be plucked by another? Anyone could walk by and steal her flowers. Betsy bemoaned her fate. She loved the city but nature called to her, roses of imagination.