Realizing that I could not tell apart the three fig trees from weeds any longer, this morning I descended into my garden with a large pair of clippers in hand. When I returned to my terrace, I was completely wet from perspiration. My legs were bleeding from the dog rose thorns. My Crocs clogs were stuffed full of leaves. It took me a while to take care of myself, but I felt outright victorious. The fig trees are now perfectly visible from the terrace. There are clear signs of carnage all around each one of them. I love the weeds, which never cease to impress me with their survival skills, but I also feel protective of the fig trees. They were planted for my beloved, after all. Now in their second year, they have not yet produced a single fig. Battling with the weeds must be hard on them at this stage of their development. In a few years, the fig trees will be tall and sturdy enough, and I will stop worrying about them. From then on, I will leave the weeds to their own devices. Assuming that the garden will not be needed for our own survival in the next decade or two, the only weed I will keep in check is the dog rose. Otherwise, the fig trees would quickly become unreachable. My gardening in a nutshell.

Addendum (August 13, 2016)

Looking at my garden day after day, I have hard time telling apart the three fig trees from weeds once again. From my terrace, the weeds look formidable, indeed. Some of them are my height by now. To my surprise, the fig trees look rather puny after more than two full years in the garden. Time and again, I promise myself to descend into it with a large pair of clippers in hand, but I keep postponing the venture. Which is why I almost laughed when I came across this piece. For my sins, I caught myself checking the date at once. “Hey,” I tried to console myself a moment later, “there are two weeks to go still!” The truth be told, I am hardly eager to spend a few hours battling with the weeds in the summer heat. Year after year, I am getting tired of it all. “For crying out loud,” I mumble to myself disconsolately ever more often, “let the figs fend for themselves as best they can…” Nonetheless, I will have to descend into the garden with a large pair of clippers in hand by the end of this month at the latest. And that is a solemn promise.