That night my parents came into my room and talked to me, one at a time.
My father talked about his brother and how much he loved him and how he’d promised his parents he’d always take care of him.
My mother talked about how much she loved my father for his strength and kind heart,
about dreams and reality, and the need to count your blessings.
And she made me cry all over again when she kissed me goodnight and whispered that of all her many blessings, I was her best and brightest.
I felt sorry for my father. I felt sorry for my mother. But most of all I felt lucky for me that they were mine.
And in the morning, as I rode my rusty bike out the driveway to school, I promised myself that when I got home, I’d tackle the yard.
Rented or not, this was our home, and I was going to help make living here better.
As it turns out, this was easier thought than done.
First it took me half an hour of rummaging through the garage to find a hammer and a box of nails, a saw, and some pruners.
Then it took another half hour of standing around to figure out just where to start.
The actual yard was just clumps of weeds, but what about the bordering shrubs?
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