They get planted with their group and lag behind, never making the big harvest. The rest of the class graduates and moves on, but they remain, leafy and fruitless, waiting for a nudge.
They occupy prime garden real estate yet I refuse to pull them, rather wishing to give them a shot. Speaking in plant whisperer-ese I offer encouraging words, "Never give up my pretty," or "I think I can, I think I can ... " Struggling, propped up with bamboo stakes, they fight off late frosts, schizophrenic weather patterns, a wider range of pests, and inferiority complexes.
"Fear not!" I say after each bout, then sing them a few bars of "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger!" and do the Kelly Clarkson dance. Faithfully, they hang in there.
Lo and behold, one day, scarred and weathered, they bear fruit and tasting better than all the rest.
Just like me.
Happy May Day!
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