August 13, 2021

Neighbor's Raised Beds

          The mystery of how an idea comes, a product of body chemistryor breakfast.
          Our neighbor had been almost tearful getting ready to leave with her husband and four kids for two weeks out west. Friends they hadn't seen for a decade came for dinner the night before, and I could tell her generosity and 30-something charm had been stretched to their limit.
          For—of course—she was the organizational force around which her family orbited, quite efficiently thanks to her. She was that contradictory thing that women in her role can be: a servant and a superstar. We have had no serious conversations, but she once said to me You have your dogs; I have my kids and my plants.
          Thus it happened that I decided to remove absolutely every weed from her two raised beds of cucumbers, peppers, cherry tomatoes, and zucchini the size of forearms. You couldn't see the plants through the groundswell of hairy galinsoga, which had laid a chartreuse tablecloth over everything.
          She was coming home tomorrow, and I had set aside the entire day to work on the beds. 
          After an hour and a half in my gardening pants and a T-shirt, I stripped down to Speedos and doused myself a couple of times with the garden hose—but the water never ran cold. The sunscreen on my neck and shoulders dissolved into a vile nougat under the lunchtime sun. I was pretty much naked in my neighbor's backyard, pulling weeds as fast as I could.
          And that's when I heard our screen door open and shut.
          Gary would cross the driveway and come over to ask me how it was going. He'd see me doing this typically emotional, over-the-top thing for our neighbor, and he would smile down at me. 
          I prepared for this moment between us—anticipated it, savored it like the first sip of Sauvignon Blanc on a July evening.
          I kept glancing up, but I never saw him. 
          After a while, I heard the sound of his circular saw come from our garage. He's building a set of bookshelves for me.
          How we all, constantly, miss the bulls-eye with one another. 
          But she'll cry when she sees her tidy raised beds! I'll say I left one weed for you to find!