I am God.
The ants damn near better
believe it. They build their towers, perfect circular mounds, and
I flood them. But some escape with their Torah or whatever codes
they carry to construct another identical edifice a few feet from
the last. And I don’t even care one way or the other if some
tribe should flourish - as long as it’s not in my backyard.
In fact, they do me no harm, except a gardener once told me that
they are the harbingers of the truly evil. I fear the leaf cutting
ants.
I am God, and the trees I planted
are my chosen people. I rain pellets of manna on them and rivers
of sweet water. One day I will be gone, but by then their roots
will be deep, their fruit and shade much admired, and they will
not need me. I am the God they will say never existed except in
myth, for after all there were trees before their were gardens;
but they are ungainly titans and we do not share our seeds with
them.
I am your God but not the God of
the wilderness across the street which is truly godless. Nor am
I the God of my neighbor’s lot, which is why there is a wall
between us.
I say I am God, but the adepts
know me as the demiurge or whatever the word for plant maker is
in Greek. My masters are as caring and capricious as yours. Remember
that! you weeds who think you can just take over because I’ve
turned my back.
If I am not God, at the very least
I am a tyrant, a fascist, a rabid xenophobic nationalist. I have
laid out monumental brick walkways as a testament to my powers.
I have put up bougainvilleas and chayas to reinforce the fence.
They say there are snakes and scorpions in the wilderness across
the street. I speak of that undeveloped lot whose owner does nothing
to maintain. I’ve heard he has a machine, but that a blade
broke and he had to send away for the missing part. Hasn’t
he heard of alternative technologies: men with machetes, goats,
cows? Yes, I have seen cows brought in to graze on empty lots.
There is an immigrant watermelon
vine growing in my garden between the papaya and bananas. I am not
making this up. Of course, I will let it stay. And yes, I wonder
what other marvels I am rooting out when I weed. But my garden is
a planned, gated community and one can’t take chances and
weeds will take over if given the chance. Please, do not tell me
that what I call weeds are actually natives; some are, some aren’t.
I’m not a botanist; how would I know? Not that it would matter.
The birds fly into my garden from
the wilderness across the street. I like birds, but I fear avian
flu. Still the birds are OK by me, except if there’s an eagle
with a snake in its mouth.
Barbara
Joan Schaffer
