Half the day was gone, an hour past noon, and I was about to dive into the dirt. With a garden fork and a hand shovel, I slipped on my sandals and squated down to soil level. Cratering the root of a weed, forking around it, then shoveling through the dirt. I grabbed the lowest stalk of the thorned weed, and twisted it around, pulling it from the ground.
A voice came to me, "With every drop of sweat, is a drop of rain for your future garden."
Every one of them was grounded into the soil, root so deep, that it felt as if it was planted through the Earth's core. I pulled a weed with all of my might, and yanked it from the dirt. My balance shot, almost falling on my back but the ground caught me. The fear of falling felt as if a cliff was behind, but I felt stable on the ground. The dirt was not my enemy.
"Weed assassin," I thought to myself. What poor lives lies in front of me, deemed as unnecessary, yet it taught me more than just gardening. The work was nothing to be afraid of as with every drop of sweat, an elixir of youth concocted itself inside my body. Decreasing in age, yet becoming a sage as the weeds told me to root myself deep, unabashed of shame with my writing. To not care if the weed bloomed with flowers but to cast out for all its worth, to prepare for a new beginning, a process of growth as revisions and writing shall be in the future.
What would become if nothing was done to the field of weeds? A forest of flowers with petals as bright as the sun, with dead stalks in the winter. What would become of my backyard if there was no weed assassin? An overgrown sloth of insect haven. I needed to kill them. Today was their funeral.
Just kill some weeds. Just write.