Chickweed

Because I’m an old crusty muck my back ails me greatly and I suffer and groan in the morning. Because I suffer in the morning I lie stationary in bed far longer than I should, bypassing an early breakfast and a productive start to the day, sometimes until as late as ten in the morning. Because I sleep late, I often feel hurried to make coffee, feed the fish, eat a scone and a hardboiled egg and perhaps half an orange. Because my breakfast is smaller than it should be, I feel weak and lethargic most of the day, especially during the important part of the day, four p.m., especially Wednesdays, when traditionally I tend to the back garden when the cool shade envelops it completely and when I am able to make the most progress on weeding and deadheading and watering and such. Because my energy level is low during this time, I don’t always catch every weed that should be caught—that nasty chickweed is especially nettlesome. Because I fail to stop the onslaught of various and sundry weeds, they slowly undermine or kill many beautiful perennials, sapping them of precious nutrients and diminishing the beauty of my backyard sanctuary. Because the garden lessens in impact, my daughter, Harriet, hesitates visiting (at least this is my suspicion, as she loved mother’s gardens and still views them as a kind of heritage). Because Harriet decides to spend time with her girlfriends instead of her father, I have nothing to do on Thursday, and I sleep in even longer and then feel beleaguered when I do wake up as if the day is slipping away from me, which it is. Because the day escapes my grasp I begin drinking before noon, right after breakfast, and I avoid the garden entirely, even though there is much work to do in the garden still. Because I begin drinking so early, I take an afternoon nap and blow off work entirely and eat a dinner consisting of toast and cheese and a small cup of cold tea—leftovers from yesterday—and then watch some inane documentary with far too many commercial breaks that seem to stretch forever. Because I watch far too much television my eyes become weary and my back hurts again, but I’m far too tired to stretch it or take a nice warm salt bath (which usually helps). Because my back hurts even more than it did the other day, I decide to call the number I posted on the refrigerator for garden assistance—a man named Gerry, who, upon speaking with him on the phone, I find out was born in 1951 and who retired five years ago from the U.S. Postal Service and whose retirement occupation consists of pulling weeds and chain sawing low hanging tree limbs in the neighborhood (he wanted to be outside after many years cooped up inside behind federal walls and now he can be, all the time, if he likes). Because I call Gerry and complain about chronic back tightness and hire him to assist with pulling weeds from the back and side gardens, I end up weeding the back garden some prior to his arrival so that he does not prejudge me and determines that I have completely slacked or become neglectful (though I have). Because I involve myself in some preparatory weeding, I feel a bit better and know more about what must be done and what the major priorities are in the back garden for Gerry’s expertise. Because I know a bit more, I feel confident about my yard when I engage myself in conversation with Gerry and attempt to dole out instructions (“this should not take too long, I wouldn’t expect,” I say). Because my confidence level is up I minimize the specificity of my instructions and cede my trust to Gerry, believing that he must know what he is doing since he informs me that he has been a professional weeder for going on five years now (I did not know that weeding was something one might become a professional in). Because of my minimal instructions, I realize, after Gerry has completed the weeding and after I have paid him, that he pulled a series of perennials by mistake—because of this, I am flabbergasted. Because I’m flabbergasted, I’m pissed. Because I’m pissed, I bump the table, jarring the mug from yesterday containing leftover tea. Because I jar the mug, it falls and tea spills all over the kitchen floor and the mug bursts into many parts—which is a catastrophe because that too belonged for many years to Tricia, who passed away three years ago and without whose help I flounder. Because the mug breaks, I scramble to piece it back together (and for some seconds slip back to pondering Tricia and our time together), but find it impossible and instead sweep the ceramic sickles into the trashcan and give up and moan. Because I give up and moan, I decide to defer calling Gerry until the next day or the day after. Because I hesitate calling him, he may, I realize, believe this to be a sign of weakness or lack of surety on my part. Because Gerry may believe me to be insecure, he may renege on any requests to reimburse me for the now missing plants, which are invaluable actually, which is indeed what happens, for when I call him the next morning, right after my coffee and raisin scone (slightly stale), he claims that he only pulled weeds and that perhaps I am mistaken about those plants and flowers—perhaps they already died and I did not realize it or perhaps they have “withdrawn,” which what is that? Because he claims that I am, most likely, mistaken I double check and because I double check, I become pricked by mosquitoes and must apply ointment liberally over much of my exposed skin. Because I apply ointment I also double check the spread sheet on the computer which tells me that, in fact, unless the plants died, which is unlikely at this early time in the year and without fungal or parasitic invasion, I am missing my bleeding heart and Siberian bugloss. Because I am also missing my astilbe, I am crushed and realize that perhaps up to approximately ten percent of the garden, as a result of hiring Gerry and his negligence/ignorance, has been irreparably damaged. Because my garden has now been irreparably damaged, I drink vodka and take the phone off the hook. Because I take the phone off the hook, I miss the important call from Harriet (she leaves a message), who wonders where I am and can she come visit. Because I miss the important call from Harriet, she believes that I am aggravated by her and decides to not come and visit me. Because my daughter does not come and visit me, I go back to weeding as a means to occupy my mind. Because I return to pulling weeds, I strain my back again—the whole point of not weeding in the first place. Because I strain my back again, I have to sleep on the floor after drinking even more vodka and I become dehydrated (which I loathe, because it lingers into the next day). Because I become dehydrated I have to drink more water, but it’s difficult. Because I have to drink more water, I drop a water glass, which shatters into a million pieces on the kitchen floor, but since my back is hurt, I cannot sweep all of the shards away and I manage to step on one that I missed and the shard sinks into my foot. Because the shard of glass from the broken water glass sinks into my foot, I cannot walk and because of my bad back and old age, I cannot pull the glass out of my foot and because of my now-alienated daughter, Harriet, I have to  call a taxi. Because I have to call a taxi, I must lean upon the gentle and kind (all things considered) taxi driver and hobble to the car, barely. Because I must hobble to the car, I drop my wallet and cannot pay the driver and am flustered and I don’t know what to do. Because I am flustered and old and confused, I give the driver Harriet’s number and thankfully she answers her phone when he calls and she agrees to pay him so that I can be admitted to the hospital so they can remove the shard of glass from my foot before it cuts my foot in two. Because Harriet offers to help, she comes racing to find me at the hospital, but unfortunately, she finds herself in a fender bender on the way because she neglected looking to her right as she merged and as a result, she hit a maroon van. Because Harriet hit a maroon van she is tardy and can’t help me as I am admitted and as they begin evaluating me and offering me various medications for my pain. Because I am offered various medications for my pain, I take one and I am quickly rocketed up to Jupiter when Harriet does arrive. Because I sail around the gaseous planet, I barely give Harriet a hug and I am not even sure who she is really or what she is doing—all I know is that she is there to help me, which I accept. Because I accept her help, I let go. Because I let go I am shuffled off here to this room, where I relay this story to you since you are the only one who might listen, even though you have tubes up your nose and that thing around your mouth and the machine going chu-chu-chu so that you are alive, even if you can’t hear a single thing I’m saying. Because I am telling you all of this, I miss Tricia terribly. Because I miss Tricia terribly I ball up the single photo I have of her in my wallet and I swallow it. Because I swallow Tricia’s photo, I may have other problems—we will have to wait and see what, if anything, emerges.