A SATURDAY MORNING PULLING WEEDS.

i'm elbow deep in pruning back our roses, hoping for one more round of blooms before the fall air carries them away. it is foggy but warm - warm enough for our windows to be cracked open and wear open sleeves in our garden. each time i glance up, i see you bent over, wandering into the green, searching for lizards and weeds and pine cones that only you can seem to find. 

i move a bit slower these days, losing my breath more than i can count. my stomach begins cramping if i am slouched over my blooms for too long, so i take many short breaks, knowing my body all too well. i pull off the shriveled white roses that have dimmed to brown and crack like broken potato chips once touched. you ask me what i am doing every few moments or so, always preoccupied with what i am up to, even if i am right beside you doing the same activity as you.

there are wilting flowers and piles of rocks in all the pockets of your overalls, and each time they fall, you say uh-oh mama and place them back. you trade me a kiss for more water and roasted seaweed, and point out the roots of trees, each and every one, just like i taught you. 

"you see dat mama, das a woot."

i play you this song

"don't take my word for it, 

just look at me and know that it's true"