“How green is your thumb?” he asks.
“Grandpa!” I laugh. “Don’t be silly!” “It’s just a saying,” he explains. “Having a green thumb means you know how to keep plants happy.” “Then I want my thumb to be as green as a pickle!” I shout as we walk to the garden. Grandpa laughs and walks to the shed, where he fetches a bucket of water. “This is my favorite bucket,” he says as he fills it with water. The bucket is rusty, dented, and cracked. “Why don’t you buy a new bucket?” I ask him. |
Grandpa and I have a rest on the garden bench.
“I spy with my little eye, something that is purple,” Grandpa says. I guess it right away. “The flowers!” I yell. “Now I spy with my little eye, something that is shiny,” I say. Grandpa looks around the garden. He guesses the bucket and the garden shovel, but I shake my head, “No.” “It’s your prosthetic leg!” I announce. “You win!” he laughs. |