The Meadow Annual Literary Arts Journal 2022

170 The Meadow Ten Feet Below My Driveway is a Field Nichole Zachary After school every day Father told me to fill A trash bag with weeds from the large field of wildflowers nestled in the view from my old bedroom window. He said a nice yard is important to Mom, Who worked as the sun did, dawn to dusk. There were never any gloves to use, my father kept them in his truck, locked. The stems of my fingers were scraped Red, raw, and bleeding from the bite Of the weeds fighting back as I ripped Them from their earth, roots flailing. I yanked the potential stinging nettle, dry grass and green thistle from the ground, sweat dripped from my nose like water splashed onto the dusty earth as rain. Somedays I pulled so many, I filled two bags, Dirt taking up the space reserved for my perseverance Or whatever else we call the fear of failure. I sometimes avoided pulling the soft flowers To allow what’s beautiful to live. But as I ran out of weeds to fill those bags, I killed those beautiful flowers To give the weeds more room to grow.

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