Azalea Bush

AZALEA BUSH you ask me to trim the bush outside (near the steps) which has grown unchecked for twenty years. it is a true monstrosity. you hand me the shears, tell me to trim it back a little. take some branches off here and there. your instructions are always implied, never specific. outside, i sit on the ground staring at the bush, the pink flowers on the limbs grinning up at me like tiny mouths. i threaten them with the sharp shears and they retaliate with their sharp teeth, snapping and snapping. twenty years and counting and now your azalea bush has a life of its own. behind me, behind the glass window you are watching to see who will win: the thick, tangled, woodsy stems or me. i lift the shears awkwardly. i know you are waiting, watching. i dig the shears into the ground and turn around (was this the right branch?). behind the glass your reflection is smiling. you are always smiling in my presence. you knew before i began who would be defeated, didn’t you? the sun, gleaming from the glass, hides the deep wrinkles of your face, your dull, gray hair. all that remains is: that monstrous smile which has grown sharper with time. even the azalea bush turns away, snapping shut as i take the shears and slide the blade across my wrist. bright pink and lovely, encouraged by the first cut, i lift the shears and trim the bush once again just for you. it was the right branch, the perfect cut. the blossoms sprouting from my wrists sparkled like perfect rubies in the daylight. mother, i now understand: landscaping isn’t at all difficult when performed with confidence and the right tools. thank you for the chance to be reborn, smiling. Copyrighted April 29, 2011 Jim Brewer