My Grandmother's Raspberry Patch

We are weeding my grandmother's raspberry patch--my sisters and I--kneeling in the prickly weeds, sensible in our wide-brimmed sun hats.  The job, in theory, is easy: leave the woody raspberry canes, pull everything else.  Our cul-de-sac hands don't know what they are pulling--they tug with steady indifference, pulling up the earth into clods and pockmarks, small sunken volcanoes empty of their innards.  I throw the weeds into growing piles, starting new ones as I inch down the row.  My sisters work on one pile at a time, clearing each mound to the compost pile before starting a new one.  My way makes double the work, picking up the weeds twice, but I love the rhythm of pulling and throwing, pulling and throwing, marching down the raspberry aisle until I've made it to the end of the row, piles of wilting, shrinking greenery baking in the sun.  My piles plod after me, marking the places I've been in my grandmother's garden.  When I make my way back down the aisle, sweeping the whole thorny lot into a wincing embrace, stray burdocks stick to my shirt and hands, and the row is clean, tidy, cleared of my efforts--the thick brown raspberry canes are all that remain.