Today, I helped my mother with her garden. I made the earth soft, I placed the seeds carefully, I added a little bit of the nutrient-rich soil. I tried to place the seeds upright in the ground. I’ve never done this before. When I ask her how I’m doing, she says I’m doing good. She says I plant them so carefully.
My wrists and back haven’t been doing very well these past few days, but I know that if I let her, my mother will sacrifice her entire body to her flowers. She’ll offer her exposed skin to the sun and her aching joints to the earth. Her muscles will cry and the tears make the earth richer.
The doctor said she needs to rest. Her knees, the bad arm, her back.
My body hurts sometimes, but all I have to do is stretch and rest and it goes away.
I have to plant the bell pepper seeds.
I have to sacrifice my own body to the sun, to the earth and the flowers. It is a duty to the selfishness of giving. I must because I want to.
What would I do if I saw you weep again? How could I bear to see anything keep you from joy for a even a single moment?
How incredible to see you after all of the sorrow. You touch the earth, you plant the seed. Every morning I walk outside to look at the flowers with you.
And this is my dark soil. This is my water.
I wake up. I see her dutifully tending to her garden. I put on my shoes.
I am the flower blooming with the love of a mother.
