An old wives tale I read once, believed that life flashes before your eyes when death is near; I wonder if that’s happening to me.
I guess you could say that the roses started to bloom when I had just moved into this town about 4 years ago.
The sun was bright and the moving vans with their dented bodies had just left, everything was already un-packed, sad to say in my senior year of high school I didn’t have much to my name. A pair of worn down chairs, a ratty mattress with a rusty bed frame, an ancient television set, a fold out dinner table and a random assortment of school supplies and kitchen utensils.
Despite my meager belongings I was content, being dirt poor, you really don’t linger on the fact you can’t have gold plated doorknobs.
My gaze slowly traveled to the house I just moved to, it was-in all truth-the ugly duckling on the street, with its low roof, squat form, peeling paint and sun-bleached door it had about as much prestige as road kill. I walked over and had to press all of my weight on the door to get it to even budge slightly. As soon as it inched opened enough to slip my small frame through all I could do was plop down on one of my thread-bare chairs that may have once had a floral pattern on it, or dancing cows, it was so faded that I couldn’t tell.
After taking that incredibly short mental break I headed to the bathroom. When I first saw the place I was surprised to see that the bathroom actually had a claw-foot tub and a porcelain toilet, and of course a cracked mirror. I looked at my tired reflection.
At one time I had long flowing hair but in a fit a rage my mother cut in in my sleep, now pale blonde hair tumbled from my scalp to about my chin then turning inward. Golden eyes with pale lashes stared back and then traveled down my thin body. I often got asked if I was anorexic or had some kind of disorder, it wasn’t the case, its just that when I was young I was malnourished and it stunted my growth.
I sighed loudly and then made my way out of the bathroom, through the torn screen door and into the weather worn shed. It was entirely filled with tools and supplies, as she requested of the owner: weed-wackers, shears, shovels, gloves, fertilizer and most importantly, eight rose bushes.
Later that night as I flopped on my bed, the plans of fixing up the yard floated in and out of my mind as I drifted into sleep and dreamed about my mother said kind things to me. Definitely dreaming.
As the mid-morning light seeped through the crooked blinds I groaned and rolled over on the bed. Morning was always the worst because it reminded me of such terrible things; I started sweating a bit just at the thought.
Slowly dragging myself off the bed and down the hall took a took of effort, but I had things to do so I grabbed some-kind of off brand granola bar and headed out towards the shed.
About an hour, 3 bags of fertilizer and eight rose bushes later, I started the meticulous process of weeding my potential pride and joy. You see, there is an art to weeding a garden. Don’t get me wrong or anything, its not like I research this stuff in my free time for fun, but I do know a thing or two. First you have to treat the weed like a friend, gently and gain its trust a bit, once you’ve done that you can wiggle it up a bit and clear the earth around it away. After that its easy, all you have to do is slip your hand up under the tangle of roots and yank it up.
A lot like a relationship, I thought bitterly.
Continuing my work slowly but surely time was whisked by and twilight arrived abruptly, interrupting my work as the shadow from the house blocked my view. I started packing up shovels and wrapping the old garden hose when some shouting came from up the street.
Tsk, It was barely the second and this is what I need, trouble.
A group of about four guys yelling at each other and knocking into one another crested the hill and continued down the middle of the empty street. I returned to my work and was just about ready to go inside when I heard a voice behind me.
“Hey.”
A middle height boy with sandy hair spiked at the front and large retro-style glasses on had spoken.
I glanced at him for a second and then picked up my things to leave.
“Are you too good to talk to us? Huh?”
This time a boy with light Indian skin piped up, his dark brown hair waved around and framed his handsome face.
I looked at all four of the boys at once realizing that there was one thing they had in common. Their clothes.
Each had on a very expensive looking school uniform, and in addition each had an air of arrogance. Another boy next to Indian-skin was wearing a base ball cap that hid his short cropped hair.
“Even though you’re a looker, that doesn’t mean anything if you’re piss poor bitch.”
Baseball cap sneered as he said this.
She continued to blankly stare at them as they threw random insults at her and cursed every once and awhile. Bored she glanced to the forth boy who didn’t join the taunting.
His chocolate hair fell soft around his face and his green eyes reflected the scenery, he stood slouched not condoning or condemning the situation. I sighed and looked back to retro-glasses, Indian skin and baseball-cap.
“If you don’t mind I will take my leave.” I said crisply and turned on my heel and continued through my door.
Just as the final inches closed she heard a yell, “Don’t forget about us, you tart skank, we’ll be back.” Wow. What a fantastic new start I thought to myself. I grabbed my loan-out laptop, which was possibly more valuable than the entire house, and opened the Internet as I descended into a chair. I logged on my student address for my online school and opened my Advanced Botany class assignments.
Even though I’m poor I’m not stupid. It was something I prided myself about, something no one could take away. As I effortlessly clicked through the questions and finished all my work for the night I clicked the power off and decided to just sleep in the chair.
Snuggled tightly against myself I fell into a deep sleep and I dreamed that my mother giving me a chocolate bar in a green wrapper. Strange.
