The turnaround day

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The beauty of the roses was so evident from their display in the store, their petals lax and flexible; stems curving as if they were begging for a touch, that I could not resist the temptation to buy them. As if cradling a baby, I carried the pot to ...

The beauty of the roses was so evident from their display in the store, their petals lax and flexible; stems curving as if they were begging for a touch, that I could not resist the temptation to buy them. As if cradling a baby, I carried the pot to my old Volkswagen car. From my collection of winter Jackets and scarves that spread disorderly in the bonnet, I made a blanket for the pot and carefully placed it on it. This I made to take care of the pot in case it fell. I then drove home to find the best spot for my roses.

I had been in the house for only a week and had not done much as far as the renovation of the garden is concerned. I had spent most of my savings on painting the walls, fixing the broken windows and replacing the locks of all the doors. These had left me so broke that employing a casual worker to do the flower garden would have made me go without food for some days since it was a week away from month end. Therefore, I had to do the gardening myself.

The garden had a lot of overgrown grass that made it look like the savanna grassland. To me, it appeared as if the yard had not been touched for more than a year. I was faced with weedy flower beds and bushy side plants that were sprouting to clear. This made the lawn  appear unattractive and with no sign of life.

I found a perfect spot at the back of the house, where I could be seeing the roses from my bedroom and the kitchen and started the digging exercise. The exercise was so slow and annoying since the only tool I had was a shovel. Kneeling, I attacked the ground with the spade. I expected the task of shove-lifting the roots to be an easy one. But instead, the shovel was stopped by the roots, and I had to lean my whole weight on the handle so that I could push the shovel below the roots. Wedging the shovel beneath, I started pulling up, spewing dirt around the shovel like lava from an active volcano. This effort made my arm ache with pain and the shovel squeak. Finally, the shovel came up.

But the roots of the plants stood firm on the ground, although a little tilted. What is it that made the shoveling so hard? I wondered. Brushing away the clumps of dirt from the shovel as I felt it with my fingertips, I made a rough inspection of the content. I transferred a hard as rock content from the shovel and placed it on my arm. My arm sank from the weight. Wiping it clean made me suspect its preciousness from its yellowish, shiny color. I bit it with my teeth and confirmed my suspicion.
It was gold.

 

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