The little woman crouches over the flowerbed, loosening the
soil with a rusty spade while carefully arranging dried leaves and vegetable
peels around the base of the plant before covering up the “compost” with the
loosened soil. She repeats these actions as she moves from plant to plant,
until the bag holding her “compost” is empty. The relentless summer sun beats
down on her exposed arms and legs, her skin bronzed from hours spent outdoors.
Occasionally she stands up to ease the ache in her legs and wipes the sweat
from her brow, taking a few seconds to look at the vegetation surrounding her.
Satisfied with the “compost”, she fetches a bucket of water, saved from everyday
household use and waters each plant, making sure not one drop is wasted. If it
is late in the day near supper time, she will harvest ripened produce after
taking a few minutes to contemplate what to present on the supper table that
night. Finally, taking her selection, she heads back into the little house,
starting the preparation of food for the two or three people who will dine
together that night. This little woman is my mother, Tracy, and this is the
story of her vegetable garden.
