It was one of those mornings, and it's going to be one of those days. The morning sky was gray and mostly not silver, as I walked down the street. I walked all the way down the street, see, because it was one of those mornings. A brooding, blue morning; a morning where the thought "I can't do anything right" slid around inside my skull. It slid around till it put down roots and it grew till it overshadowed the weed named "I can never do enough."
It's the smallest seeds that grow into those pernicious plants with their poisoned fruit. It's the comment, "That bread will be good today and tomorrow but it will be stale after that." It's the wall behind the words, "I guess it's okay if you go out"--the dam I feel holding back some river, though what flows down the river, I don't know, whether the water is potable or poisoned. It's the edge that flicks out of "I'm really busy right now."
No one plants those seeds. They just fall. The wind blows them in. Summer, the dry season: on all the hills, the grasses are golden and light. The grasses, the weeds, have died, but they are still standing. Their skeletons rattle, pale yellow, light brown. Their seeds wait, dangling from dessicated stems. The wind will pluck them and sweep them into the sky.
The seeds soar across the blue. Drifting, dancing, they travel.
Then they land, they prick. They burrow into the dirt. They wait again, for water. Summer, the lawn season: the grass in the green lawns needs watering. The sprinklers play at any hour of the day, and if I were still a little child, I would be playing in the falling water. As it is, I can only think about the waste, all the precious water escaping into the sky--evaporation, that thief! And age is just as much a thief, to replace joy with judgment.
The water falls, whether from sprinklers or from tears, and the weed seeds grow. I haven't been weeding lately. Summer, the hot season: I don't want to kneel on the ground and look for the problems. I don't want my neck to redden, I don't want the sweat to drip. Besides, I can't see the weeds from where I stand. I would rather assume they aren't there.
Also, if I stay out of the yard, I won't get scolded for being dirty. I can stay inside, like a good girl, and put the dishes away in the kitchen. Stack the plates, nestle the cups together in the cupboard. I can answer when I'm called, speak when I'm spoken to. Outside, I don't always hear my name. You call me, and I don't respond, and that never ends well. Fearing this, trying to do it right, I stay in.
Outside, neglected, the weeds grow.