My allergies relented due to some recent thunderstorms. When the sun emerged, my husband and I caught up on yard work. He cut down bushes while I weeded out the flower beds.
When I look down to pull a weed, the silicone oil in my eye shifts, clouding my vision. To minimize the oil shift, I start eying up my leafy victims, indirectly looking for verdant delinquents. I’m wielding a garden tool that looks like a pickaxe. The weeds don’t stand a chance; I’m in the zone.
I take mini breaks when the standing up and down from throwing weeds into my garden cart makes me light-headed. For the moments it takes my vision and balance to reappear, I half squat in the mulch or the lawn. The smell of the neat spring grass reminds me of the pristine courts of Wimbledon. As I pause, it’s like I’m kneeling at the side of the tennis net, poised for my next catch as a ballgirl except this isn’t Wimbledon. I’m certainly not dressed in my whites, wearing yellow shorts and my black “choot ’em” t-shirt featuring Troy of Swamp People.
My vision clears, and I hear a lawn mower roar to life next door. I attack more vegetation. Better keep moving before my allergies shut me down for the day.