A tenacious red bouganvillea used to reside in my front yard. Over the years, I waged many battles against the large and prickly bush. I have never known a plant with such a desire to live.
I tried to kill it any number of times: hacking it all the way to the ground, to a bare knob. It thrived in spite of many amputations. I cut it down until it was hardly a splintery nub, whacked its roots with a machete; but each time it grew back stronger and more recalcitrant.
It returned sweetly, inoffensively, as a tiny shoot with harmless new-green leaves; then before I knew it, more substantial branches would emerge, tentacles inching their way forward with each wet summer day.
After many thwarted attempts I finally I took a shovel and dug it up, a more difficult task than it first seemed. I followed every tendril back and back until I had removed each one. Sprays of dirt showered down on me as I tugged and pryed its roots. Nevertheless, I attacked it with cold and methodical determination. It took me hours, an entire day, to completely unearth it.
Afterward, a mound of tangled and misshapen limbs lay in the yard on a bed of heart-shaped leaves. Having left no trace of it in the ground, I finally felt satisfied it would never recover.
I stood there covered in sweat and earth, leaning against the shovel, my palms sore and my legs torn from dozens of tiny wounds, and I stared at the spot where it used to be. The ground was now stripped bare and starkly revealed the shabbiness of the front walkway. I paused, trying to adjust my mind to this new reality, wondering how I would fill this emptiness, how I could distract one's eyes from this pitiful entryway toward something more presentable.
Finally I shook my head, exhausted from the day's efforts. Something low-maintenance, I thought, watching a lizard scurry up the stucco wall, presumably in search of new quarters after I had leveled his residence. I inspected my arms, covered in pinpricks. Something without thorns.
I still dream about it, that it has grown too big, that I am cutting it with large clippers, shorning it. The branches fall around me, their prickly thorns grazing my skin, scratching me lightly.
And when I awake, I strain to remember if it is still there, if perhaps a bit has survived, if tiny shoots are still stirring, somewhere, in the ground.
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