LISA DYER is a freelance writer, living and working in Colorado. Presently she is working on her second novel, while trying to corral her children and carry on with the more mundane business of life.

                                                                 weeds


Suffocating. That's the only word that really fits. Oh, there are others: sweltering, oppressive, unbearable, but suffocating works best.

Alice swipes absently at the sheen of perspiration that covers her face. Not even a breeze stirs the dusty leaves shading the tiny patch of earth she's trying to coax into something resembling a garden. For a month she has tended faithfully to the short, neat rows that have been painstakingly carved out of the weed-choked lawn but so far...nothing.

A beat of sweat etches a sticky trail between her shoulder blades. Alice straightens, lightly massaging the small of her back, her hair clinging damply to the nape of her neck. The only sound in the silent afternoon is the somnolent buzz of tiny wings. Alice's gaze wanders briefly to the bee that hovers above the honeysuckle covering the fence that separates her property from her neighbors'. The bee flies in lazy arcs from one fragrant bloom to the next and she stands, momentarily transfixed by the insect's slow, deliberate pattern, as though it is carefully sampling the nectar of each blossom in an endless quest for perfection.

Alice's vision blurs as a salty droplet finds its way into her eyes, stinging for an instant before she blinks it away. She sighs, retrieves her trowel and turns back to the task before her. None of the seeds have come up yet, but the weeds that have called this little corner home for years are trying desperately to insinuate themselves in the freshly cultivated soil and Alice is determined that they should fail. So she labors and all the while the outcome is inevitable. Come fall the weeds will return.

She can feel the dust she has stirred up adhere to the sweaty film covering her arms and shoulders, her face, her legs. It's a gritty, unpleasant sensation, almost as unpleasant as the heaviness of the air she breathes but she resists the urge to wipe the grime away. It won't help. Just finish up and retreat to the shadowy comfort of the kitchen. A glass of lemonade and a shower, that'll help.

She shivers slightly in anticipation, her mouth already preparing itself for the tart sweetness of the lemonade. She can see the condensation that will form on the outside of the ice-filled glass; she can feel the cold, smooth, wet surface. What she doesn't feel is the first fat raindrop that spatters on the sole of her she. What she doesn't see is the tiny puff of dust that explodes beside her knee when the second raindrop lands in the parched soil. Then she is drenched, the unexpected cloudburst catching her unaware.

She hurries toward the house to escape the downpour then stops short in the middle of the yard. Why is she running? From what? She is already soaked to the skin and she has never felt anything more glorious in her life. She lifts her face to the sky, spreads her arms wide and smiles to the heavens.

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© 2002 Lisa Dyer