BAD LUCK BLACK! ─── Harry Potter

xxviii. Put the Shears Down, Lorelei!

     There are so many weeds. Their tangled roots bury deep into the soil. Bushels invade the landscape, towering high and mighty. Some wield thorns, others spindly, wiry threads that pierce flesh. Flora stands no chance. In every bed, raised or deep in the dirt, weeds have already laid siege. A battlefield wrought with decaying corpses, browned petals and drooping stems. They crack along the withered brick of Lonnie's house and sink into the mortar. They've made it their home, and there they'll stay.

     Invasive, unkind. Lonnie's property is housed on bumpy hillsides overlooking expansive fields. Broad-leafed grass surrounds the acres almost like a moat with its sharpened stems. In the more personal patches of lawn, is the disease of crabgrass. The meadows used to be vibrant with flowers. Tiny ones with cupped petals that carried a scent of citrus. Azure skyline, pillows of yellow, gracious mists of wind. Now, tan knots of weeds and greyscale.

     It's no Etty's garden that's for sure.

     Moons ago, flowers bloomed. Lorelei remembers them. The iridescence of white petals, the fullness of multicolored petunias and blissful gardenias. At least, he's kept the gardenias; he's always loved those. Everything else . . . rotted, unkempt. Burned by the sun or drowned by rainfall, even eaten by starving animals. The aftermath of neglect. They have been forgotten.

     Lorelei yearns for the past. With a smile, she'd play hopscotch on the cobblestone promenade winding along the property. Shadows were provided by upcarriages of trees and sun streamed through the openings, speckling like kaleidoscopes. Simple, unlike Etty's, but just as bright. Sometime, and Lorelei's not sure when, things began to wither. They changed. It's inevitable after all.

     Tilting her head to the right, Lorelei squints at the gnarled rupture of weeds and branches invading the beds. In her fist is a red handled pair of shears, polished and trenchant. This is her blade, and she'll wield it like a valiant knight slaying vicious fiends. Begone, foul things! Sir Siward would be delighted. Around her waist is a gardening belt affixed with various tools, including a trowel she'll use to exhume the earthy carcasses. Soil stains her dungarees, even freckling her cheeks. She wears the throes of her effort proudly.

     Lorelei grabs at the decayed branches tangled amongst pervasive plants and snips haphazardly. There's a lack of care to her actions—in fact, she's nearly chopped off her finger multiple times. Key word is nearly! Scorching sun blazes upon the straw hat strapped to her head. It's Lonnie's and far too big, yet it does the job.

     Truly, no one asked her to do this. It called to her. Lorelei cannot stare at the unruly mess of her uncle's landscape for another second. Besides, it was either prune and return wonder to the property or indulge in a game of solitaire for the umpteenth time. Clearly, the choice is difficult.

     "Lorelei!"

     At the call, she turns her head to Lonnie as he walks down the cobblestone path. Summertime beckons loose attire, and her uncle wears just that (Remarkably). Light-wash jeans and a white, cotton shirt tucked into the waistband, and the sleeves are rolled. His tattoos are on display. Ink leaves on vines that wrap around symbols she can't decipher, and there're words in tight penmanship around the leafage. The only speckle of color amidst the nebulous ink is a tiny, and she means small, four leaf clover. Bright green.

     The casual style of his attire is odd. No double-breasted blazer, shined loafers, or pin-straight trousers. This is another side of her uncle that no one sees besides her, and the Yates of course. An impersonal artifact meant for homes not museums. Lorelei likes it. The sun catches in Lonnie's growing facial hair, the whiskers glowing like amber. By above, she hates that beard. Lorelei narrows down at the crate he carries.