…1999 to be exact.
I had no idea how much back-breaking labor this would involve, but I soon found out.
The three pictures tell a story:
In the first photo I display the naïve cheerfulness of a new homeowner, like an innocent lamb gamboling to the slaughter.
By the second photo the Sisyphean absurdity of the task has dusked on me (dawn doesn’t seem like an appropriate term) and my rosy cheerfulness has been replaced by a desperate, American Gothic pallor (and yes, an old pram does make an excellent wheelbarrow; having done our duty and replaced ourselves, we weren’t planning to have any more children).
By the last picture I have abandoned all hope and am using the last vestiges of my strength to dig my own grave.
I clearly remember how I gingerly stretched out my frail frame, with the hard, unforgiving earth the only pillow for my tear-stained cheeks.
And there I would have remained, never to be heard from again…
…had my wife not coaxed me out of my grave with promises of sex.
I realize now that she was driven neither by passion nor compassion, but by the astute realization that she couldn’t afford to lose me yet. There were still the front, side and outside sections of garden to be done, for starters…
