We ran up the cliff, dogs and tomato cages in hand, to tend our garden plot in the dark. The two foot long metal spikes bounced around in the air, missing the dog’s head. Key. Lock. Gate. Wet grass underfoot.
We tied the leashes to a fence post and set to work, to the steady pounding of basketballs thumping the court that overlooks all of New York City. I snapped a tomato branch. Dang. How did these things get so big in one week? He pushed the cage into the ground a little further as I frantically pushed the leaves under and around the wires. Snap.
I pulled six, seven, eight weeds and leapt to my feet. There were scores more. They could wait. Instead I danced around in the dark to the sound of Latin music blasting over the adjacent park from some kid’s parked car. Voices in the park chimed in with the radio; they all knew the words.
They are here every night, those guys with music and talking and hookahs. I can’t tell where they are from, but I am glad they are here. The garden wouldn’t be the same without them. Just another Jersey City summer night. We’ll wake up early and do it all again tomorrow.