There are days when I no longer feel like a gardener. There are days when I feel more like a fashion photographer, coordinating colors, waiting for the perfect light, and soothing the tender egos. As I take out the camera, they’re on — strutting and seductive as they all aim to get the cover of Vogue or Elle or Better Homes and Gardens.
“Yes. That’s the shot.”
“Hold it. Hold it.”
“The camera loves you, baby.”
“I can tell you’re going to be a star.”
“Own the pose, sweetie.”
“Work the runway.”
“You’re on fire!”
“Pretty in pink, that’s what you are.”
“Kid, in time, you’ll be America’s next top model.”
“That’s the money shot.”
“Yes,” I assure each of them. “There’s no one else like you. You’ve got the look.”
If they ever start talking to each other and learn that I say that to all the lovelies, well, my fashion photographer days are over. It’ll be back to the garden for me.
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