My mother has this thing with plants. A thing that's been around for most of her life.
Every spring she fetches that old wheelbarrow from the garden house and locates a pair of sharp shears. The old wheel squeaks and shakes as she navigates the rickety barrel across the front yard. She gathers the brush and leaves of old and tosses them over her shoulder and into the bucket. She has a method.
Half the year our basement reflects some sort of undiscovered, albino rainforest. Plants cover the rocky floor, and for half a year, they're safe from the unfriendly elements in their underground hideout.
But today, today, sunlight and warm breezes beckon the rainforest to relocate.
Soon, a collection of assorted hooligan plants crowd the backyard. They're unruly, pale, and a bit decrepit in form.