This week’s words: vulture rubble bleached resound pistillate overindulge ghostwritten sienna washed-out stepchild
My uncle Rex grew pistillates. He had hundreds of them in his greenhouse and around his yard. He tended them daily and said they were the only women he could trust. You knew where you stood with them he’d say. He had this loud resounding voice that called to you from down the yard where he would be knee deep in the sienna coloured soils he was so particular about cultivating. They matched his dirty washed out old overalls bleached in the midday sun.
But Uncle Rex did suffer from years overindulging in the sun with no hat. It was his end the skin cancers that attacked him and in the end his step child Rosa found him beside the rubble heap in such poor condition we wondered how disappointed the vultures that circled overhead would have been had be not been found.
It was a frustrating end for me as well as I had the week before taken on the job of ghostwriting his life story.
He’d be so pissed off I thought leaving his pistillates to the mercy of nature but we have our day in the garden of life and Rex had had his.