Landscaping

A Poem by Abby

* . * . *

My father was leaning on the counter, watching the kettle boil for his second cup of tea. His Einstein hair was freshly cut by my mother over the bathroom sink and complimented his red face. I joined in on the tail end of his yawn, echoing the mood of the morning.

“Are you going to work in the garden today?”

The kettle whistled and he took time to pour a fresh cup, yawning again before his answer.

“The haliboris have only just begun to bloom and my shoes are ten years old. I will work in the garden tomorrow, buttercup.”

Home..home on the range, where the dear old gardeners lay..with a beer in his left, and a tool in his right, the dandelions quake at the sight.

He is sixty-five now, I am seventeen. I remember all of the springs blurring into summers.

One morning, I recall, began in the exact same place. Kitchen counters, cups of tea, yawns of all size and sound. That day was some years ago. We decided to take a drive to the nursery. The drive was a pleasant two hours, it smelled of mulch and the windows were air conditioning enough on the highway.

We plucked fruits from fig trees and crunched the seeds between our teeth.

“Beauty berry or Callicarpa dichotomy

I could squeeze one into our garden”

We embraced the sweat and sun, loaded our new plants onto the truck, and rode back with tanned skin.

“Put the kettle on, I am coming home”

He phoned my mother.

He sits down next to the bowl of fruit. Glasses..white hair and red red skin. The newspaper rustles in his hardy hands,

“You know if you pick a buttercup, and hold it under your chin, your neck will glow yellow..same with your butt ..hence..”, my father reasoned, “you can see in the dark.”