Exorcise in the Garden

The sun shone a hot 94 degrees.  My bandana, purple with hippie peace signs, didn’t prevent sweat from running into my eyes, stinging with salt.  I tucked my black onyx ring into my breast pocket and then raked my fingers through the pungent black soil.  Peppers and tomatoes and cabbage and collards, food to feed my family, labor to feed my soul.  I worked the garden alone, buds in my ears, shutting the world out.  Solace against old pains, they ebbed with each strike of the shovel.  I’ve many more injuries to forget.  I’ll be back in the garden tomorrow.  

(Drabble = a story written in exactly 100 words)