With the big oak out of the way - sawdust and
firewood - my father tore up the myrtle
and started the garden hed been wanting
for years. He and my sister
planted seeds and seedlings in tiers
while I photographed the event-
the tops of their heads
and their shovels as they turned the earth.
After the first week, the office picked up
and my father was never home before seven.
My sister didnt care much
about vegetables - not really. I
only looked out at the garden from the porch
and sometimes gave it the hose.
My mother developed a speech about
my fathers frivolity. But by October
my father harvested one summer squash
as big as his leg. Nurtured by neglect,
it had surpassed everyones expectations.
We dissected the squash in the yard,
the allure of horticulture ever more clear
as my father hacked at its skin with a saw.