José my gardener

I looked out through the window. The grass was not yet tall enough to mow. It had rained, and green life was returning to Austin after the long winter, and spring was almost fully here.

But the snowstorm of a month ago in Texas dealt Austin a cruel hand and plant life has not really recovered.

“José,” I said, “The lawn doesn’t need you yet. Maybe in a week, two?”

“I need the money, Mr. Moyo,” José pleaded.