Thimma manages the spillway at the southeast rooftops, where rainwater runs down between the marigolds and the laundry lines.
Her pink bloom catches the first drops. The green leaves guide the rest into the channels. It’s a simple system. Quiet. Predictable.
“I don’t improvise,” Thimma tells anyone who asks. Nobody usually does.
Except last Tuesday, when Darla flung open her shutters and emptied a whole teapot into the gutter.
The marigolds hiccupped. The laundry dripped cinnamon. The runoff turned the herb stairs sticky for three days.
Thimma didn’t say a word.
She just added an extra leaf.