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I
my mother grows a jar full of seeds. keeps it on a shelf for her daughters
to stare at, not touch; the glass womb cases sunflowers, the withered pea,
corn kernels shaking midwest; these are the ones i know, pressed with their
skins to each other ready to clack and scatter; we stare at the womb from
all sides, our eyes bulb through the heavy curved glass
until we are old enough. the jar swollen on the top shelf; finally we are
tall, able to catch at it, fingertips sucking its smoothness. mother
carries it down to her daughters, opens the lid, and each of us reach in a
hand, tara clutching a handful, me wading through, jacketed by the smell of
peat moss, earthworms burrowing, and clay. i select ten and run after tara
who has already scattered hers across the corner garden. it is raining and
tara laughs as the drops plow the seeds slowly down, puddles washing over
their aged skins
i kneel in the garden, let the soil soak through my knees. i pack each seed
under layers of dirt. ten. one for each year i've grown outside my
mother's womb. i press my ear to the earth, rain masking me with mud.
listen to what it's like to be a seed |
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II
my mother understands why some seeds refuse to grow. it isn't the rain or
the dirt, the blackbirds scooping them up to crack in tight beaks. some
seeds, she tells me, do not want to be born; they enjoy the careful wombs
made by their mothers too much to risk the world. tara is a terrific seed,
impatiens, mother calls her. i am more trouble, sometimes a violet, but
usually an oak that chooses to grow slowly, if at all, with deep roots
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