The First Visit:
Bare-handed and bare-armed, the thorns tore at my skin as I tried to negotiate an uprooting. The shrub was not prepared to part from its bed and I was not prepared to sever the connection, though I pulled for a sweat-soaked minute.
I had watched the buds swell into white blotches in my field, softening the brambles. Multiflora roses are noxious weeds. Invasive, they were never meant to grow so well. They’ll kill a hill in a few years. It was time for it to go, before other clusters of brambles began to sprout.
Strings of blood grew in the shape of a stop sign and itched.
The Second Visit:
I borrowed leather gloves from the garage and returned with scabs and long sleeves.
“Hello, I am sorry. It is nothing personal, but it’s time to go,” I warned, hoping it would get the idea and go easy. But, the roots held the earth tighter than I could grasp the base of the bush. The knotted stems had grown broader than my fist and my fingers slipped.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I told the plant.
The Third Visit:
Chopping.
I snipped every leaf, every flower, every stem and watched them fall to the ground. Once nothing but raw wood remained, I returned the pruning shears to the garage. That night, I dreamt all of my houseplants withered away, like when I was a kid and couldn’t imagine nurturing life from a dry little seed.
The Fourth Visit:
The following spring I visited the stump with a stone to mark the spot of a struggle. But fresh brambles greeted me. I dropped the rock where I stood.
The Fifth Visit:
Armed with a shovel, it wasn’t meant to be a massacre. Leaves and petals flew as I split the dirt with the blade, hacking more than digging. I rinsed the dust from my hands and face, but was unable to meet my reflected eyes.
The Sixth Visit:
How many times will a multiflora rose send out new shoots, last year’s growth being destroyed? How can I take that unwavering hope, determination for survival, for myself? I returned by moonlight and asked the bush. And how many conversations before acquaintances become friends?
The Final Visit :
Well, it becomes too much. I achieved a surgical precision in the whole removal of the expansive root system. I burned the bush after it dried in the dust for a few days. I said my goodbyes. The bush did not return the next year. My field once again was empty.
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