Nonfiction by Sarah Banks
Backing my car out of the driveway on an early March morning, I spot a single clover pushing through the dirt beneath my mailbox. I’m not surprised. Spring in Mississippi, a two-month interlude between the wet chill of winter and summer’s heavy heat, arrives before the vernal equinox. The air, tinged with humidity, feels cool this morning, though it will warm to the seventies by the afternoon.
When I see clover, my thoughts turn to the elementary school I attended, its play yard covered in emerald, three-lobed leaves each spring. Sometimes, this memory flashes through my mind then quickly disappears. Other times, like this morning, the recollection lingers, my mind holding it in place during my drive to work. Either way, clover conjures an image of that terra cotta brick building with windows lining the classroom walls.
During recess, while my classmates jumped rope and swung on the monkey bars, I would walk out into the field of clover. I’d squint to see where the end of the seemingly infinite, green expanse met the sidewalk. The leaflets rested against the ground, reminding me of a deep green quilt stitched to the earth. The flowers, tiny white pompoms, dotted the lawn. When wind moved across the yard, the clover shivered.
I would slip my feet out of my shoes, resting them atop the soft, springy clover. My hands inevitably burrowed into the green carpet, thumbs resting on leaflets. They felt soft, delicate—easy to tear. Each one held a small, crescent-shaped marking near the center.
In our classroom’s encyclopedia, I’d read that clover seeds can hibernate in the soil for decades, and I wondered if these had grown from seeds buried in the earth before I was born.
I’d often lay on the clover quilt and gaze up at the sky, imagining myself elsewhere. On those days, the sun hovered high, only a few clouds feathering the soft blue expanse. With no trees nearby, the sky opened wide, stretching so far it seemed to continue past the horizon.
By the end of April, the weed covers my entire front lawn. I’m nostalgic when it comes to clover. I won’t disturb it myself, but each week, my yardman mows it down with his lawnmower, allowing the Bermuda grass to show its spikes. By the end of each week, however, clover once again carpets the yard a deep green. It scatters its flowers across the lawn, daring the yardman to cut them down.
I’m unaware that clover can be invasive until my father mentions it.
“Clover will spread as far as you let it,” he says as we stand outside, surveying the yard. “I can spray it with weed killer if you want. That way, the grass won’t die.”
“Maybe.” My eyes drift toward my neighbor’s yard. She’s already complained about the redbud petals that fell from my tree onto her lawn, so I know she’ll object if the clover creeps into her property. Still, I’m reluctant to eliminate it. “Let me think about it.”
One time after school, I stood in the kitchen in front of my mother and held out my hand. In my palm, I cupped the four-leaf clover I had discovered during recess. The encyclopedia stated that the appearance of four leaves, a genetic mutation, occurs in one in 5,000 clovers. Despite my odds, I’d continued my quest to find one, sifting through the clover each day until I found treasure.
“How can we keep it safe?” I asked my mother.
“That’s easy. Watch this.”
She laid the clover between two sheets of parchment paper, then tucked it between the pages of the worn, hardback dictionary she’d used in college.
“Don’t worry.” She gave a warm smile, her eyes earnest. “I’ll hide it on a shelf in my closet.”
In the years that followed, I would sometimes ask her to open the book. I needed to confirm the four leaves still existed, proof that the clover had chosen to entrust me with its secret. Over time it dried, curling at the edges and fading to a muted green, yet the leaves remained attached to the stem.
In mid-May, I stand on my porch, imagining the clover spreading without interference. A smile tugs at my lips until my gaze moves to my neighbor’s lawn, where the clover inches toward her property line. I glance at the redbud standing against my fence, some of its branches—meant to spill over into her yard—cut to blunt nubs by her shears.
A few days later, I call my father.
“Get rid of the clover.”
I feel guilty for transferring the task to my aging father, but I can’t be responsible.
Weeks later, before I leave for work, I stand on my front porch and gaze at my lawn. After consistent treatment, the clover has disappeared, eradicated by the weed killer. I lift my eyes to the pale blue sky dome. The sun edges above the horizon, and the crowns of the pines appear as silhouettes against the pink-gold light blazing on the skyline.
Backing out of the driveway, I see zinnia shoots peeking through the earth beneath the mailbox where the single clover once grew. Soon, pink and yellow puffs will fill the flowerbed, but I am certain the clover will return next spring. And if it threatens to spread into my neighbor’s yard, I know my father, for as long as he can, will be the one to spray it.
Sarah Banks is a nurse living in Mississippi. Her poetry appears in Rust + Moth, South Florida Poetry Journal, Thimble, Autumn Sky Poetry, and elsewhere. Her fiction has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and appears in Flash Fiction Magazine, Bright Flash Literary Review, and Fiction on the Web.
