They are pathetic things really, only two feet tall, if I’m being generous, and kind of crooked. Some with too many leaves, others with too few and all completely barren of anything remotely resembling an ear of corn. Twelve stunted reminders that sweet corn just doesn’t grow on prairies like does back home.
I tried so hard this year. I germinated seeds inside this winter, earlier than ever before. I watched over those bright green shoots like a doting mother. I fertilized and watered them. I protected them from the batting paws and nibbling incisors of our ever-curious cat.
When the warm weather finally arrived, something that truly does not occur here until summer, I ever so carefully transplanted them to the sunniest spot in our little, backyard garden. Again I fertilized and watered them. I protected them from the inevitable hail storms, the neighbourhood rabbits, and, of course, our cat.
Now it is nearly autumn and the first frost surely only days away. And here I stand, staring at these sad, deformed stumps that should be majestic spires of green reaching to the sun, adorned with cobs of succulent, golden ambrosia. Nature’s hand can just as easily slap as it can caress.
I accept my defeat and yank them all from the ground, ending their suffering. And mine!
(This was based on a draft for a writing course I did a decade ago)