Morning Glory Hallelujah
Eight years ago when I worked in New York City my morning commute included a subway ride across the river and a stroll across 13th Street. Locks rattled as chains were unwound from storefronts preparing for the day, and car horns bleated passionately. On warm mornings the scent of urine wafted out from neglected corners. One wall of a shabby brownstone boasted a tattered hand-lettered sign that read “Fresh Paint — No Sex Against This Wall.” It was, in all likelihood, your typical Manhattan commute. Until I got to the corner at 2nd Avenue.
Climbing out from the well of a basement apartment was a startling blue explosion of Morning Glories. Hundreds of them, winding up out of the dank darkness and twisting around wrought iron banisters. Their faces stretched for the sun. I saw them every day, yet they were always unexpected. I rushed along as rush hour demanded, with my head bent and my feet hustling, but when I got to that corner I had to pause. I loved those incongruous blooms.
The walk to work that second week of September 2001 was utterly different. The air was eerily still. Shuttered shops didn’t open. There was no drone of traffic. No slurring of vagrants. Everything was different, except that damned blue sky and the Morning Glories.
I planted my own Morning Glories for the first time this spring with no conscious thought to that terrifying time eight years ago. I was thinking simply of the vivid blue petals. I wanted them to unfurl each morning in my yard. I wanted flowers to climb up and over my deck railing. And so I planted the seeds, and despite a historical lack of success with growing flowers, a Morning Glory showed up.
I went to dump the compost this morning and there it was. Bright and determined, rising up out of a clump of neglected dirt in which I had tossed the remainder of a packet of seeds. And with the early sky blazing and the old familiar blossoms I was right back there on 13th Street. I sank down on the steps next to the vine. I felt like I was going to cry. I rubbed my finger gently against the sole flower and took a deep breath. I stared into the periwinkle petals and its lemony center. It’s such a fragile, ballsy little thing. I wiped a tear, and had to smile.