Sunday Morning, Whacking Weeds

I waited so long to take it out of the box. I think I was afraid — afraid I wouldn’t know what to do with it. I feared it would create complications. Maybe I’d regret buying it or, worse, living so long without it. When I finally got it out, I laughed at how dangerous the instructions made it sound. Protective clothing? Goggles? Come on. All I had to do was plug it in.

I squeezed the trigger — so loud! A pebble struck me hard in the cheek, and then another stung my arm. I began whacking. First, I cleared the area around Laughing Buddha. I whacked anything taller than an inch. I wanted to climb the fence and whack my neighbors weeds, the bushes, the world. Sweat beads raced down my sides. Suddenly, I was making less noise. I couldn’t whack. Perhaps a malfunctioning spool. I put the dirty whacker in my car and drove a mile out of town. I knew I couldn’t keep it. If I kept it, I wouldn’t stop until I whacked it all.