Last year, my father’s neighbor Devi Joseph got permission from the city to plant dahlias in front of the Cabrillo Playground. The head gardener of her district removed the sod that had been covering the lawn area and filled it with truckloads of Golden Gate Park compost. Devi received a grant from SF Beautiful to pay for the drip irrigation parts and system. She put up a wire fence and planted the bulbs. I watched the rows of green plants in front of my father’s house with interest. One day the flowers came, blooming in all hues and shades. Some are soft like little crinkled pompoms, some are elegant in their velvet dresses, all of them stunning in their display. In late autumn, Devi dug the bulbs up for the winter. The little plot of land lost its magic.
A few weeks ago I saw Devi at work again. As the weather warms, the dahlias are peeking out of the green. My father, 90, likes to ride his electric scooter down the sidewalk like a pageant reviewer. The dazzling faces give him joy and company. I, on the other hand, can only think of poems that speak of love.
