The Ten Second Video

Brandon Figliolino

The Ten Second Video

November 23, 2019

            Can a ten second video change your life?

It was November 23, 2015. I was sitting at my desk in a corporate office, processing orders for a technology company. While I typed away, my phone buzzed.

            I received a Snapchat from my sister. Snapchat, a video and photo-sharing app, had been around for several years at that point, but I had just started getting into it. I enjoyed sending photos of my cat, Lucas Logan, to my family. The rest of the photos I shared were generally of me on my bike. It was a fun app and a good way to decompress.

            I finished processing the order and took a break to check the Snapchat my sister had sent. I clicked the icon with the white ghost. My sister’s username popped up with a red the square. I clicked it. A small, grey tabby in a metal cage appeared. Wide eyed, she stuck her paw through the metal slats, trying to catch a feather toy that my sister was dangling. My sister was laughing in the background. Within ten seconds, the video vanished.

            Whose cat is that? I texted, knowing full-well she was in a shelter.

            Her name is Emma! I went to PetSmart to play with the cats, she responded.

            Which PetSmart?

            The rest of the afternoon, I was fixated on this cat. I loved Lucas but had been growing more guilty of leaving him at home alone. My work schedule had changed, and I had taken on more volunteering opportunities. I wondered if he needed a friend.

            Maybe I needed one, too.

            When five o’clock came around, I hurried to PetSmart, clear across town from where I worked. I walked straight back to the cat adoption area and found an employee.

            “I’m here to see a cat,” I told the young high school student with purpose. “Her name is Emma.”

            He brought me in to the room. There weren’t many cats in there. I smiled at them all and said a little prayer for each in my head. May you find your forever homes.

            Then I saw her. She was curled up in the front of the cage, tufts of her fur popping through the slats.

            “Hi there,” I said. I poked a few fingers through the metal wires to scratch her head. She raised her head, cooing.

            I looked over to the store employee. “Can I hold her?”

            He unlocked the cage. She hopped down onto the floor from quite the height and started running around the room. When she settled down, I walked over and petted her. She rolled onto her side, cupped my hand between her front paws, then started kicking me like a rabbit. Then she hopped up, bolted to the other side of the room, and then raced back to me, sending out little chirps into the air.

            It was adorable.

            “Do you know anything about her?” I asked the employee.

            He shook his head. “I only know what is on the sheet over there,” he said pointing to her intake paper hung on the door of her cage. It said she was about a year old and came from a shelter in Texas.                               

            Emma stopped running for a minute and took a seat next to me. I looked into her warm eyes as she blinked.

            I didn’t have a cat carrier on hand, so I bought a $12 one made of cardboard. She didn’t like it at all. When I put her in the car, she howled and cried. I tried to reassure her that it would only be temporary, but that didn’t stop her from expressing her fear. I started the car.

            “You’re going to be okay, Emma. You’re coming home.” Before I put the car into gear, I connected my phone to the stereo system.

            “How about we listen to music?” I fumbled through my playlists until I found one that caught my eye: the orchestral soundtrack to the show Once Upon a Time. The fantasy series, based off fairy tales, is the story about a woman named Emma Swan who returns to the town of Storybrooke to defeat the Evil Queen.

It was the perfect, calm soundtrack for the car ride home. The car rolled along, and Emma calmed down, listening to the music.

“I wonder if there is a Storybrooke in Texas, Miss Emma Swan,” I mused aloud.

After a bit, I called my mom.

“I did something crazy.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Ashley sent me a video of a cat at the pet store and I just adopted her.”

“Congratulations! I’m glad I have another grand kitty.”

We arrived home. Seeing as I had not done any research on how to introduce cats, I set the cardboard box down on in the front hall. This is not the preferred method I have since learned. Lucas Logan strolled in from the bedroom, meowing for his dinner.

“Hi buddy! I have a surprise for you.” I opened the box. Emma popped out and began exploring the condo, tail wagging. Lucas followed in tow, keeping his distance, but unwilling to let Emma out of his sight. While they explored, I prepared their wet food dinner. I set the two plates side-by-side on the kitchen floor. The new friends sat and had their first meal together.

When it was bedtime, I called for the cats. Lucas hopped on the bed and Emma quickly followed, taking a place right beside Lucas.

My family had gotten bigger and I couldn’t have been happier.

At the time, Snapchat had been an entertaining way to send selfies to my friends and a way to show-off my cycling adventures, but all those previous and subsequent “snaps” seem irrelevant now. That video my sister shared was a gateway to what has since been years of happiness. Emma has been with me through new jobs, new friendships, a move to Denver, and so many great memories, experiences I would have missed were it not for my sister’s impromptu decision to send me a Snapchat video of a cat playing with a toy. Emma is attention-seeking, playful, and always by my side or on my lap, in good times and crummy ones. In the TV show, Emma Swan is the savior of Storybrooke. In some ways, Emma saved me and Lucas, too. She still does.

There’s a piece of me that is thankful for Snapchat’s existence. Had it not been around, I may not have found Emma Swan of Storybrooke, and no doubt my life would have been a little emptier.

            It turns out, a ten second video can change your life.

                                         

Zombie and His New Job

Brandon Figliolino

Zombie and His New Job

November 17, 2019

            My first college-level writing workshop was taught by an amazing horror fiction writer. Before taking the course, I had little exposure to the genre, and I hadn’t read any of his work. I’d get nightmares from reading Goosebumps and A Series of Unfortunate Events as a child, so stories of terror didn’t appeal to me. I had no interest or business reading nightmarish prose. Still, the class seemed exciting and I was prepared to do my best.

            Our first assignment was to write a short story about zombies. Of course! I thought. It made sense that our professor would help us develop the ability to terrify people on paper. The parameters of the paper included what would become the usual: an eight-to-twelve-page limit, double-spaced, and twelve-point font. Each story had to start with the words, “I told them you couldn’t do that with a zombie.”

            Class was dismissed. I went home and started writing.

            Or I tried writing.

I stared at my computer screen for an insufferable amount of time. I had no idea how I was going to write anything scary. Apocalypses were cliché in 2009, even before Walking Dead and Zombieland. I didn’t want to write about zombie attacks, brains, guts, or blood.

I guess I didn’t want to write about zombies.

            After several rounds of typing, highlighting my text, and striking the delete button, I decided to drop the horror genre. The story had to include a zombie, but nothing was said about what the zombie did or in what tone it did it. I decided to write a feel-good story about a recruiter who helped a zombie get a job, many years before I decided to make that my profession. It started like this:

            I told her she couldn’t do that with a zombie, work with him that is.

          Nineteen-year-old Brandon didn’t know why it was important for humanity’s sake not to end sentences with prepositions.

          Throughout the story, the narrator took the zombie around town to try out different jobs. Edgar, the zombie, failed as a playground monitor and a plane-jumping instructor. The career services counselor eventually found him the perfect job in a horror film.

How cliché!

                                                          ***

          Fast-forward ten years. Instead of sitting in a classroom in Boulder, I’m sitting in a dark bar. One woman paints my face with fake pus and blood, her eyes intense and focused. Another woman circles us both, snapping photos with her professional camera.

          “Try keeping a straight face,” the camera woman tells me.

          I nod and drop the smile. Outside, I hear screaming. Without turning my head, I shift my eyes to the window near us. I see people running across the street dodging one another. My stalwart face cracks into a grin.

          “Sorry, I’ll try not to smile,” I tell them both.

          “You’re very happy,” the makeup artist says, applying a bloody gash to my forehead. “It’s definitely out of character.”

          I shrug. “Yeah, I’m going to have a hard time with this job.”

          After ten minutes, the makeup artist finishes. She hands me a mirror. My face is ghost white. Black circles surrounded my eyes and sticky blood and gore drip from my mouth onto my chin.

          “It looks like you ate something really nasty and forgot to wipe your face,” the photographer says.

          “When you’re a zombie, I guess hygiene doesn’t matter much,” I reply.

          “I think you’re ready for the action!” The makeup artist takes the mirror. “Good luck and have fun.”

          I step out into the blinding October sun. The crowd has died down. Several dozen people are huddled across the street at various bars, touch football flags dangling from their waists. In the street are my peeps: zombies. There is a dead Waldo, who looks like he has been retrieved from a shallow grave. A military man has half his face blown off and is missing an eye. My favorite zombie is a businesswoman who has a scowl on her face and this determination to attack anything that comes near. She is also one of my close friends from graduate school, and the reason I am walking around a street in all black with fake blood on my face.

          “Hi!” I shout to her. We exchange hugs. “Let’s go eat some people or whatever we’re doing.”

          “Steal their flags!” she says. “They’re running from bar to bar. You must stumble like a zombie, but it’s not too hard to grab the flags! When they run out of flags, they must buy more, so get as many as you can.”

          “I’ll take your lead!” I say.

          Music from a DJ starts up. Thriller. The perfect segue into my role as a zombie. I eye a group of women who look ready to bolt. They dart past me shrieking. I reach out haphazardly to grab at their flags and miss. I burst into laughter.

          My friend walks up and bops me on the forearm with a closed fist. “You’re the worst zombie ever! Stop laughing!” she jokes. “Be scary!” She turns to a runner, raises her hands in front of her and shouts, “Garrrrr!”

          I’m laughing so hard I prop myself up by holding my hands to my bent knees. “I can’t stop laughing! This is so ridiculous!”

          “Get it together, Brandon! Get their flags.” She smiles and starts walking towards a bar entrance, continuing to growl at the runners.

          That only makes me laugh harder.

          An hour passes. I have caught zero flags. If I had a Fitbit or step counter, it would say I have slow-walked the single block at least several miles. There are more runners now. It is time to get serious.

          I want to grab at least one flag. I can’t let the zombies down!

          With that determination, I snag my first flag. Thinking I’m harmless, a woman walks right past me while I am dancing. I reach out and snatch it from her belt, enjoying the sound of the Velcro pieces coming undone.

          Ha!

          I drag my feet towards my friend, waving the flag ahead of me.

          “Look! I got one!”

          We high-five and I continue with my new strategy: looking like the happiest, most ridiculous zombie ever, essentially the normal, undead version of myself. I dance. I pump my arms in front of me and above my head. I clap my hands to the music. I wave and smile at everyone and constantly laugh. Both zombies, runners, and passers-by come over to talk to me.

Towards the end of the day, a family walking towards downtown stops so the son can look at the zombies. I start walking towards him. With a finger extended, I say in the cheery tone I use when speaking to my nephew, “I’m going to get you!” The boy screams with delight and plays along with the bar runners for half an hour, bolting back-and-forth across the street while his mom and grandmother snap photos and videos on their phones.

There is little doubt my dancing will be on many Snapchat and Instagram stories today.

          These bar hoppers are such fools to think I am not a threat. Pretty soon, I have accumulated four flags. My fifth and final flag comes from a woman who boxes herself between a car and a queue fence.

          “Well that was dumb of me,” she says when I approach.

          I take her flag. “Yup! Enjoy your day!”

          At five, the music stops and one of the hosts for the event announces over the sound system that the 2019 End of the World Pub Crawl has ended and the proceeds from the event will go towards two charities, one of which is a nonprofit my friend the zombie businesswoman chairs.  

          The bar runners cheer and clap for the zombies. Several come out on the street to exchange hugs. I take several bows.

                                                          ***

          Throughout my day as a zombie, I kept thinking back to my short story, Zombie Gets a Job. Poor Edgar floundered at the jobs he was given. He ate a little girls’ flower on the playground and was fired for it. He pushed a guy out of the plane without a parachute and caused him to break both his legs. I thought I was coming up short as a zombie too. I wasn’t scary and although I was dressed in skinny black jeans and a black shirt, I didn’t look like something from Resident Evil.  

I felt out of place until I leaned into the role. Not every short story needs to be graphic and violent and not every zombie needs to growl and screech and eat brains; some of us like to dance to Thriller and take photos with random strangers.

          For many years I thought the world was black and white and that there were rules and parameters that had to be followed for people to fit into society. For example, zombies were evil and ate brains and belonged in horror stories and shouldn’t laugh and smile. But when those confines are broken, zombies get to be themselves, clichés are buried, and life is more fun. Zombies can act however they’d like and perform whatever job is their passion.

That’s the way I like them best.

Blasting Off

Brandon Figliolino

Blasting Off 

November 7, 2019

Dear Kannon,

I’ve recently taken up drawing. Throughout my adult life, I’ve shied away from drawing, making up excuses for why I didn’t take a colored pencil to a pad of paper. I’m a writer, not a painter was the most common. I doubted my ability to draw anything good.  I let it keep me grounded, in a bad way.

Over the summer, that changed when a friend recommended I take up drawing as a hobby and a way to meditate. I nodded and smiled, feigning interest. Sure, I’ll give it a try. That sounds fun!

But it didn’t. It brought me back to elementary school arts class, where I struggled to draw anything that wasn’t abstract. I didn’t even like my stick figures. With every self portrait, city skyline, and cat drawing, I reinforced in my head that drawing was not in my skillset and that I wasn’t good. That narrative lifted off and locked away a creative side of me for many, many years. It left me swirling in a blackhole of my own making.

One day while perusing the aisles of Target—my favorite store ever—I stopped in the stationary area. I stood in front of the pads of drawing paper and colored pencils for several agonizing minutes. Should I get them? What kind should I get? Why should I get them? Do I really want to draw? What’s stopping me from trying besides my self-deprecation and lack of confidence? 

I snatched a 24 pack of pencils and pad of drawing paper and dropped them into my red hand basket. Instead of buying anything else on my list, I went straight to the self-checkout, avoiding shopping carts and other Target guests; they were asteroids trying to throw me off course. I bought the supplies and left. I didn’t want to give myself the opportunity to put them back. 

It took me a few days before I sat down with the supplies at my desk. What was I going to draw? A bicycle? A cat? Another city skyline with buildings that had crooked, uneven windows? A grassy field with a fence? I could draw anything I wanted!

Or nothing at all.

I decided to draw. I picked up a dark blue colored pencil and started dragging it lightly across the paper. After a while, I picked up a yellow and then a red and then more and more colors. Before I knew it, I had drawn a scene from outer space. I chose to draw it because I felt it was safe. Easy. 

The final drawing had a sun, some shooting stars, and in the bottom corner, I drew a small spaceship that was heading out to explore the galaxy. Through the small circular window you can see the smiling face of Uncle Brandon.  

It was a good drawing, but more importantly, I enjoyed drawing!

I’ve been continuing to draw since, and there have been several iterations of that first space drawing including one of the spaceship landing on the moon and another with Astronaut Uncle Brandon exploring the stars, his spacesuit tethered to the rocket ship. 

When I draw scenes of outer space, I think of my own life journey. I’m off exploring the world, learning about myself, and taking my rocket to new, unfamiliar places. There have been a lot of explorations over the past few years, Kannon, some of which include you! 

When your mom told me you were going to be an astronaut for Halloween, I knew I had to be one, too! I’ve been drawing the universe for months while growing and reflecting on my life and myself. Becoming kinder. Better. 

Astronauts self-reflect and learn when they’re up in space, too, right? I’m sure they do!

I hadn’t seen your costume before I bought mine. It was fitting we wore the same one, just in different sizes. You were the cutest little astronaut! 

I was pretty cute, too, if I do say so myself. 

You may see me and think I’m all grown-up and know everything. Actually, we’re both learning and growing and preparing our spaceships for new adventures that are out of this world. When you are ready to blast off, I’ll be there in mission control, available to give you guidance and coordinates to the furthest, coolest galaxies. If you get stuck in a blackhole, I’ll hop on my own spaceship to come give you a lift back home. I’m your personal NASA. 

If becoming an astronaut isn’t your passion, that’s fine! I’ll be there to help you become whatever you want. Though, if you want to be a hockey player, your Uncle Ty will be a better resource. 

Exploring space can be scary, but there is so many opportunities to see shooting stars and brilliant suns. You might even meet some friendly aliens! You’ll never know if you’re too self-conscious or afraid to try. 

I don’t have a spaceship or NASA clearances, but I do have my imagination, my art supplies, my sense of adventure, and a NASA tee-shirt. I’ll keep drawing, writing, reading, learning, and trying new things, and I hope you’ll join me!

Love, 

Uncle Brandon

Missed Connection

Brandon Figliolino

Missed Connection

November 2, 2019

            The weather was dreadful that Friday. I was walking across campus, down the sidewalk behind Mathematics and Sciences. There were dozens of students, bundled in heavy coats, scarves, hats, and gloves. Almost everyone, including myself, were walking at a fast clip. I just wanted to get to warmth. I’d imagine you were, too. Snow had been falling from the sky for days, and while there wasn’t any at the time, I knew we were getting only a short reprieve from it.

            You were walking ahead of me. I couldn’t see your face, but I remember your blue and white winter coat. It looked like it was meant for skiing, or maybe it was snowboarding. I play neither sport, so I don’t know for certain. Atop your head was a blue beanie cap with the Colorado logo on the back.  

            An instant after I saw you, I watched as you lost your footing on a patch of ice. You flew backwards and landed flat on your butt. Your black backpack, which was jammed full, made a thud when it smacked the sidewalk. Other students who saw the fall continued walking, some more cautious now that the saw you take a tumble. I saw one walker grab hold of the railing, just in case. 

             I stopped in front of you. Extending out my hand, I smiled. “Are you okay?”

            You took my gloved hand.  I got lost in your soft face and warm eyes for a moment.  

I hoisted you up to your feet.

            “Yeah, much better now. Thanks.” I watched your breath dissipate in the frigid air.

            I said it wasn’t any trouble, and then continued walking, this time ahead of you. That’s when I took a tumble, right in front of you. My thick boots were no match for the slippery slope of the sidewalk.

            “Ha—it’s my turn,” you said, holding out your hand. 

            “Thanks.” I took your hand. Because I’m the worst at flirting, I blurted out, “They should really put some ice melt down.”

            You chuckled. I dusted the snow off the back of my jeans and sighed.

            “Have a good one,” you told me, giving me one last smile before turning to head forward. “Try not to fall again.” 

            “Yeah, you, too.” I reciprocated.

            Hindsight is always more clear that the present, even for someone like me whose glasses give them 20/20 vision. Running scenarios through my head the car ride home, I thought about how our interaction could have ended different. How we could have grabbed coffee or cocoa, laughing about our shared embarrassing falls. How you could have asked me out. How we could have been friends. Maybe more. How we might not have met at all, were it not for cold weather and poorly shoveled sidewalks. 

            I haven’t seen you again, despite attending school of the same campus. It’s a big campus and I tend to show up for class and promptly retreat home. I don’t give myself the opportunity to find you, or you me. Maybe I want it that way. Maybe I’m afraid of those scenarios that I created for us. Afraid of them not turning out how I wanted. Leaving it as it is is best. 

Wherever you are, and wherever you will go, I hope you’ll never forget to lend a hand to others when they are in need. Whether it’s holding a door open for a stranger, letting someone merge in traffic, or giving them your hand when they fall. Kindness like that isn’t easily forgotten.

Number Five

Brandon Figliolino

March 19, 2019

Number Five

            It was the summer of 2012. I was twenty-two years old, and I was feeling cool—shorts, a tank top, and sunglasses cool. I had finished my undergraduate studies with a double major in political science and an honors thesis in creative writing. In the fall, I was headed out of state to pursue a graduate degree in fine arts. I was living at home, so I had plenty of company, including three cats. Life was good.

            Then the apocalypse came…in the form of a financial crisis. The economy contracted once more, and the university informed me that I wouldn’t receive a teaching assistantship or grants or scholarships. The entire $40,000/year tuition was my cost to bear alone.

            Oh, and as for housing? That was on me, too.

            I received this information in the form of an email, to which I replied with a very brief, “Thanks for the opportunity, but there is no way I could afford to attend at this time.” Being a competitive school, they accepted my withdrawal and picked another student who most likely could afford to attend. I had felt cool, but suddenly I’d been doused with ocean water. No longer cold, I was freezing.

            How dare the economy crash! That cheap university couldn’t even give me a little grant! Oh, woah is me! I lamented to myself.

That situation left me in stagnation. My plans for becoming a prominent writer burned like a banned book. Here I was, working a retail job, living with my parents (now not so cool), without a real plan for what was to come next. I was sullen and bitter. No matter how much I tried to ignite a passion, the match wouldn’t catch.

This lasted for just a few months. Then, things started happening. My supervisor, knowing I was not going to be leaving, decided to work with me on becoming a middle manager. That manager position was in human resources, which one day would allow me a chance to work in government human resources, conducting research and creating policies towards improving equity in the organization. In the winter of 2012, several public notices stuck into the cold ground near quiet streets caught my attention. I started writing letters and speaking out at city council and planning commission meetings. I applied to a city committee. They declined me. I chose a different committee focused on parks and open space. I was interviewed and appointed. That committee led to another which led to three or four more, which ultimately led to an application for a master’s program in public administration. That degree led to the realization that while I have many passions, my biggest is in transportation policy. Each event was a spark that consumed one log after another until I had a fire large and hot enough to keep me satisfied and warm for many years.

Six years later, I find myself in a similar situation. Graduate school has finished. I’m itching for new adventures. What’s next? I think. I’m back in limbo once more, stuck between where I’ve been and where I want to go.

Silly as it may seem, the situation reminds me of a character from the show The Umbrella Academy. That character, Number Five, and I share similar traits and experiences. In this kick-ass show, Number Five is a twelve-year-old boy who time travels. That’s cool, until he ends up getting stuck in an apocalyptic future. It’s worse when he finds his family dead and no one else around except for cockroaches and a quiet companion named Dolores. My family is alive and well (hashtag blessed) and the world isn’t on fire (too much). Still, I relate to his feelings of entrapment. I know what I want, but struggle to figure out how to get it.

Number Five does have an adorable smile, when he does smile. Photo Credits: Netflix, 2019

Number Five and I both adorable, have glowing smiles (it’s vain, but true), and we have difficulty finding a decent cup of coffee. Aside from those commonalities, and our similar sense in fashion, he and I are also very driven towards our passions. Five yearns to return home to save his family and avert the apocalypse, and spends decades trying to find a way back in time (he doesn’t have a DeLorean). I envision a future where I can put my skills and education to use transforming how we travel throughout the world. To meet that goal, I attend conferences, network with others, and look for any and all opportunities where I might find influence. We’re both stuck but continuing to try. At times, we both see some limited results.

We are both independent, too. Five tries to alter the future alone. He thinks his siblings will get in the way. Being an American millennial, I’ve been taught to work hard to achieve success alone. But Five learns that he can’t do it alone, and looking back at 2012 and to 2019, I see that nothing I achieved was done without a bit of help. My retail supervisor believed in me enough to help me become a manager. My family encouraged and gave feedback on my park advisory application. My former employers gave glowing reviews to help solidify my place at a county government. Professors whom I admired helped the new graduate school see my potential. My partner pushed me to continue advancing my education when it felt overwhelming. Each person handed me kindling to use for my fire.

In the months since graduating with my master’s, I’ve mourned the loss of schooling, the people who came into my circle as a result, and the structure it brought my life. I’ve been proactive, but it’s still easy to feel dismissed as irrelevant when opportunities don’t materialize. There’s always the potential a gust of wind you think will stoke your fire ends up blowing it out. After a few months of reflecting though, I know what I’m doing is right. Positive change doesn’t tend to happen drastically, and it can’t be done alone.

I may still miss school for the coming months. I may feel frustrated when I don’t get opportunities to share my ideas and speak my truths. It’s possible I could still express sadness over being stuck and annoyed that things don’t come with more immediacy. But unlike Number Five, time is on my side, and I have my own Academy of friends and family who will help me avert the apocalypse, even if it’s just in my head.

In time, my fire will roar strong once more, and it will be because I never gave up, and surrounded myself with people who give me the love and support necessary to make my flame a fire.

                                                                                                                                                                                   

Young Brandon could not time travel, but he did have nifty braces.

Getting Back

Brandon Figliolino

Getting Back

November 1^st, 2019

            I’ve been experiencing a creative drought, and it’s had an impact on my writing. The last nonfiction piece I’ve written and published to my blog was back in April. I can’t even remember the last time I wrote a short story to completion. I acknowledge it is my fault for exacerbating this desert; a lack focus and dedication to the craft has left me with not a flourishing garden but a mess of dirt, weeds, and dead plants.

            It’ll take time to plant new seeds. Over the past few weeks, for example, I have written a short story over and over, never getting more than a few pages before feeling like I need a good scream. It plays so vivid and grand in my head but translating it to print, the words read much like my garden: blah. Getting back to a routine is hard, especially when it’s been absent for a while.

            To honor my spirit and reinvigorate my mind, body, and soul, I am committing November to writing. The month is National Novel Writing Month, and the opportune time to reinvest time in myself and my writing. Plus, it’ll be easier to convince myself to spend an hour writing than an hour on the bicycle in freezing temperatures.

            For the month, I challenge myself to write every day and to publish something, anything, at least once a week. A lot of life has happened since April; I have plenty of material from which to source.

            Here I go! It’s time to regrow this garden that’s brought such joy to my life in the past. Now, who has a watering can I can borrow?