Exertion

A lady came to mow my mother-in-law’s garden today. She was 70 if she was a day. Her appearance divulged an unkempt dignity, a charming lack of concern for societal mores. She was decked out in threadbare tracksuit trousers that revealed unshakeable self-assurance and a clear singularity of purpose. Evidently, she didn’t give a shit. A ragged turbanesque hat topped her head, revealing only a few strands of grey hair that dived out from beneath it. Her rugged, almost corrugated face revealed years of toil, but also made public an energy that defied her discernible age. As she left, I witnessed her standing on the driveway binding a collection of plastic bags to an ancient lawnmower blotched with years of grass stains and scuffs, preparing to wheel the contraption back to her home two streets away. She was accompanied by her impeccably behaved four year old granddaughter, who piously observed as her grandmother cropped every inch of the back-garden. The young girl sat on the floor, and was instructed to pick weeds that her mind’s eye had transformed into onions and other vegetables. The story goes that aunty has an undying desire to acquire property, and since her migration from overseas, has frequented the gardens of the locality, trimming and cutting her way onto the property ladder. Reportedly, she never turns down a job, ensuring that a relative substitutes for her should she be unavailable, and her reliability has gradually secured a monopoly over the local garden-mowing game.