01.03.10
Two days later, the trees are
stacked at the back of the yard where the quiddity line meets the woods. My
husband and I discover that the crib has a back patio with a brick wall, and
the yard is much bigger than we realized. The
men have cut down the dead to the world
cypress in the front, and, days after that, there are new reflective
orange
signs at the end of the
high road to keep cars from driving into the creek.
City
workers lay out the tumbling kudzu with something that makes it dry up and
shrink. With the cypress gone, the sunlight falls into the yard in a new way.
We pay a man and his teenage son to mow the yard and well-defined the weeds and
vines
that have threatened to take over. They ask me if there’s anything in the yard
they should avoid mowing, but I outline them I don’t care about any of it, and to
chop whatever they want. For a minute, I want to wrench the weeds up myself, but
I don’t know the difference between pretty weeds and official flowers. I don’t know
how to do it myself, tend to it properly,
Source: The Southeast Review Online