Hedge Trimmer

A poem on aging alone

Photo by Serg Karpow on Unsplash

Under tearful skies a frail figure swallowed by Gortex makes her way from a pale salt box home, each careful step blotting a memory plucked from her once-ripe life. Plump, sweet apples packed into bushels and hauled away, leaving bare, gnarled branches defenseless against churlish winds. Alive but leafless, cold against the rain, to survive another year. 

She trains her mind on what demands it. The box hedge like a raised L on its side anchors the corner of the yard. It holds the sidewalk to attention, looking outdated, in a world that no longer appreciates such aesthetics. 

Papery hands close around household shears. Not quite right for the job, they are what she can manage. Bending close, she hovers over yesterday’s meticulous rows. So close, she appears to drink from the tiny green cups catching the rain. Spying for soldiers who’ve broken ranks. Reforming the lines one small clip at a time.

                                                                      ~

Drivers roar. Fueled by urgent dreams just beyond reach. They take no notice, brains bloated by the rush of blood pressing on tender veins. Powering through. Racing to a world, which will one day fall at their feet. Days of defeat behind them, in a blaze.

Paradise smiles where the corner turns. Fanning into a fantasy of brighter, taller homes and ripening apple trees. Figure-8 streets cradle weary drivers in soothing lullabies, reminding them of babies and children present and of all they have achieved. Invisible yard signs whisper to deaf ears: You have arrived. 

I am one who cannot see or hear. A joyless new mother. Days of defeat greet me: tight, anxious, worn. Stacking upon my thickening lap as I nurse a newborn. A body dying as it gives life. Not yet awake to the wonder. Surviving another day.

                                                                        ~

He knows her touch. Familiar as the rain, and, as gentle, she is there for him. No matter how she slows, no matter what buries her, she comes. He cannot tell her what this means. Her presence, attending to him, as she does, a tenderness beyond what she herself can recognize. Her mind trained on getting it right. Dedication to the details, its own kind of love. Transferring life from a dying body. He drinks, hungrily. For as long as she comes, he will listen for her steps. 

                                                                      
                                                                          ~

It’s been many years since I pushed a stroller past the hedge trimmer. My own house empty as hers was then. A leaky valve leaves days flat where pressure once pumped them close to bursting. Aging is not an identity I embrace. Memories are enemies. Taking me back and down. 

I think of the hedge trimmer and understand why she came in the rain day after day. I understand why she would not meet my eye. When I pushed past with my shiny apple cart. And, here I was envious of her leisure. Oblivious to its burdens, so absorbed by my own. Longing for a day when the hours would stretch. No idea what that trade-off would mean. 

                                                                        ~

Within each life stands a box hedge, overshadowed by a world of someone else’s design. The hedge trimmer taught me well. Wordlessly, with papery hands. No matter what the weather. At a crossroads, the lesson worked itself to the surface. I became indifferent to the roar. Standing in awe of a bare, leafless tree, I understand. The time has come to feel the churlish wind.