I step outside my front door at sunset, stooping to pick up a loose paper. It is wet with rain, and the writing is smudged. The handwritten words sink in: “Please clean vines off home”. It is signed by the property manager. He gives me one week to comply.
There are no vines to my left or right. Grumbling, I walk around to the back of the house and discover the offender. It stretches from ground to roof, weaving its way through the slats of vinyl siding.
How will I reach that height without a tall ladder? What if I fall standing on something? I do not have the proper cutting tool. There is no one to help me. It is getting too dark to see.
That night, I cry softly. How did the vines grow so tall so fast? Would I need to hire someone? I imagine the stubbornness of the vines–their thickness, their invasiveness, their resistance.
Hot summer morning…
kitchen scissors snipping vines–
one by one they fall.