A shocking letter!

Dear readers, yesterday I receive a letter from we garden. When I read this letter, I drop down...braps...like a limb from a tree...braps...in shock. I never realise we garden harbour such thoughts. The letter start off all nice and sweet like most hypocrites...but wait 'til you get towards the end.

Look it here:



Dear G.G.,

It’s wonderful to have you back. How I missed you scolding that stingy lime tree which, up to now, has not shown one bud. How I missed your clippers-happy hands, so dainty and girly, cutting those no-good plants down to size, those *bragadocious* plants that think they’re better than every other plant. [G. dearest, pardon my use of such a common word as *bragadocious*].

It’s been so long, G. You’ve been so busy. But my friends, Ms. Frangipani and Mr. Sugarcane Stalks would always fill me in on what you were up to. They’d peer through your windows and report every word. And now and then you’d drift in and out of my little plot of land, counting sapodilla buds, saying that you must trim this rose or that bougainvillea. I’d call to you, “Pssst, pssst, when are you coming back?” But oh, G., you never heard me. Or maybe you were ignoring me?

Ahh, but now, all is forgiven because you’re back, digging and scratching, ahhhh, just a little bit to the right, mmm, hmmm, a little bit further up, closer to my shoulder, yes, that’s it, scratch, scratch.

Yes, welcome back…but…uh…I need to ask you one question, dear Miss G, and I’m sure you will say it’s not true, not true at all.

Mr. Sugarcane Stalks said that he saw…as he was peering into your computer room, the nosy bastard…what you’d emailed to your cousin Lis. He said you wrote something like, “that hard-mouth, ungrateful garden is dry like me ain’t know what…”

Tell me he’s wrong.

But if, just if he’s not…

…you listen to me, missy, you who’s calling me hard-mouth and ungrateful…you who count how much fruits you gon reap…you ever think of how I labour to produce in this here heat? Eh? You ever think of that?!?

You is the ungrateful wretch…yes you Miss G.G!!!!!! You know about this El Nino heat!! You yourself say that when Guyanese people die they gon go straight to heaven because this place is hot like hell fire!!! Yet instead of giving me two drops o’ water to quench me thirst, you’s calling me dry, hard-mouth and ungrateful. You think that that li’l spit of water you give me now and then can sustain a body? Eh? Eh? Man, look, don’t start me up!



Well, that’s it, dear readers. The rest of the letter is smudge-up with mud and green spit. In between them smudges certain words did pop up though, and when I put them together, they say something like, You see? That is why I only like Mr. Tin-Can Man who come occasionally to weed, and Fazal who cut grass and trim trees, and your mother who’s always watering and trimming plants.



Sigh.

You know what that garden need? That garden need a good cut-tail, lemme tell you. I should just take the cutlass and go to work on it. But the sun too hot. I gone to lie down.