120/365 The dream

I walk into church. The azaleas are almost dead, that sad dried up look they get right before I sigh and toss them. Other plants are in disarray. And there at the sacristy door is Fr. Miguel.

"HOW could you have let it get this way?" he accuses me.

I look around for an excuse but all I can come up with I say to myself, not out loud: "I can't do this job by myself."

I hurry around while he watches, watering and rearranging.


I have a feeling this wasn't about plants.