My mother weeds out the dandelions in our backyard. She’s wearing a pair of yellow gardener’s gloves to protect her trembling hands from the thorns. She’s wearing Dad’s old wayfarers to shield off the sun. She clasps a vine in the crook of her pliers, cuts through the juice of the dandelion in diagonal moves. Even without looking, I can feel her eyes on me, each cataracted beyond her years after all the visits to the hospital. She asks me if I’m paying attention, and I nod, knowing the vines will cover her body all over around this time next year.
I don’t quite understand this and I could be too literal in my interpretation because I like to garden. Would you have time to explain it to me?
-Dandelions do not have vines.
-Dandelions do not have thornes.
-There is no need to use pliers because Dandelions are usually dug up by the root. I love dandelions. I gave the flowers to my rabbit who eagerly munnched on them.
The ending is one of those wistful endings, knowing that time is short. But the vines must be from something else. I think I am being too literal. Sometimes things go over my head.
I love the vivid imagery of her clothing, her eyes. I love the image of an older woman, fading in her final year, tending her garden inspite of her shaking hands and cataract clouded eyes that contrast with the aliveness of yellow dandelions.