The weeds sprang up again last night. I closed my eyes for a few hours sleep and there they were, everywhere in the garden, choking out flowers and cloaking all that was beautiful. I looked about and set to work, while all about me slept. I was all alone and pulling weeds. No field guide was necessary to identify them, for I knew them all too well—some half-filled notebooks, children’s drawings, a glue gun hot and dripping (dangerously left plugged in overnight), sneakers, jackets, cups of tea, some shimmery bits of paper, a Polaroid from last Thanksgiving, a loose metal retainer, a Secret Agent kit, a telescope. One by one, I pulled each weed and set it right. I propped each pillow, put away each cup, shelved each book, and now my garden is fresh and blooming again, ready to meet the day.
