Saturday Morning Glories
by Samantha Saunders

Every Saturday morning I sat on my grandparents’ patio with my apple juice carton to watch Uncle Bill mow the lawn. I watched the powerful lawnmower circle around every tree; I watched it disappear into the ditch and resurface on the other side. I watched his head as the sun reflected off it while he rode while I sipped my apple juice.

The juice carton had a red and green outline of an apple tree printed under the lip. The tree had five attractively plump apples suspended around the center of the green outline that indicated the leaves. It seemed to be a nice enough tree. I left my perch on the patio to inform my mother that I had decided to plant an apple tree in the yard with the rest of my juice. She responded with, "You need to plant a seed before anything can grow."

I contemplated this statement for a moment while I returned to the patio, but it didn’t sink in. My mother didn’t know what she was talking about. Apple juice came from apples and apples came from apple trees. Obviously apple trees could grow from apple juice. I could plant an apple tree with my juice if I wanted to.

With the low humming of the lawnmower in the distance, I knelt in the grass to dig a little hole with my fingers. When the hole was deep enough for my liking, I let my apple juice trickle into it, forming a tiny transparent puddle before it was absorbed into the ground. I filled in the hole with its displaced little mound of dense, Tennessee red clay, and then I laid some grass on top so it didn’t look so ugly and bare. I watered it, then left it alone.

One Saturday morning some weeks later, lured again out of the house by the sound of the mower, I noticed a speck of color out of the corner of my eye. Right where my apple tree was still thinking about growing, there stood a hesitant, but curiously determined plant with bright indigo buds sprouting from it, quickly making its way up a rail. At once I was furious with this presumptuous plant that had decided to grow in the very spot that I had chosen for my apple tree. As I was fuming though, I couldn’t help but admire those striking buds that seemed to pop out of the dusty, earth toned background. My apple tree wouldn’t have any indigo buds. It wouldn’t have the talent to twist and tangle itself around the rail like this wondrous plant. Its name, I later found out, was morning glory, a name much nicer than "apple tree." I soon abandoned my thoughts of apple trees for this saucy little plant that had chosen to grow in the apple tree’s place. I decided to take care of the Morning Glories.

I was out there every Saturday morning to watch the lawnmower. I watched it circle around every tree; I watched it disappear into the ditch and resurface on the other side. I watched as my uncle routinely turned the wheel of the mower, and I watched as the lawnmower ran over my morning glories.