My dear Friends & Green Thumb Pals!
Early Saturday afternoon, quiet suburbia in the depths of Florider.
I could feel a' Edvard Munch scream rising from the end of me spine to the chambers of me throat.
The shoots from the neem was gone. Lopped. Off.
This is the sweet neem, the leaves you put in dal, in curry.
Couple weeks ago, when me mother been moving to she new abode, me brother-in-law accidentally drop the big clay pot downk to the ground and the pot break, clunk.
Soon after, the plant look like it reach winter. Never to see another season.
But me sister say that that plant don't dead. One time, it been nearly at death-door and she bring it back to life.
I take me time and nurse it. Spring creep back into the brown, main stalk. The stems where the yellow leaves drop from, a delicate flush of young-green spread through.
And now, this good Saturday, I discover them gone. Clipped. The main stalk look like shorn sheep. Nekkid and shame.
Oblivious to me drama, the Guilty One been taking a nap.
Now, now, dear Friends, y'all don't argue.
I know it was she. Last week, she ask me for clippers to trim some plants around the front of the house.
I don't know where she been when I discover the shorn plant. Somehow, I manage to push down the scream. I think: Awright, she getting on in age now, she gon be 85 this year if we lucky. Plus, with all this arthritis pain she does deal with, I shouldn't be another pain.
Me sister agree. Don't say nothing.
Sunday, I stare at the plant through the window, sighing. Monday, stare and sigh again.
This morning, more morose staring and sighing. Ma appear strolling past in the yard, leaning on she walking stick. Just in case she had clippers in she other hand and I ain't see them, I tap the window. Soon as she notice me, I point to the plant, and do scissors-cutting motion and wave me hand to say, no no.
Ma face light up. She think I greeting she heartily. She wave back, cheerful like Santa Claus.
I thinking I gon hide them clippers.