Of Gardens and Wishes

Back in April, after Jeff turned over the soil in my garden, I put the seeds for my vegetable crop in the ground.  I was behind in my planting; the peas should have been in by St. Patrick's Day and where I live, the beans were more than ready to go in, too.  I was still a little tender from surgery but eager to be outside, taking advantage of the beautiful weather.  And I was eager to get back to my garden.

I crouched over the ground, sun fading behind me, fingers in the cold dirt, pushing the seeds deep down and patting them until they were covered with dirt.  As I planted, I whispered to them: "Grow.  Send roots down deep and grow.  I'm planting you in hope.  Maybe by the time you come there will be a baby taking root inside me, too.  They tell me there is hope, that though everything looks dead there is still the possibility for life.  There might be a baby in this garden before too long."  I whispered, my face close to the dirt.  The chill of the evening wind sent me inside, cheeks rosy and eyes bright with dreams.  I remember that I slept well that night.

It's July now and the cold April evenings are nothing more than a memory.  We bake during the day with temperatures over a hundred and humidity that makes me feel like I'm drowning.  Nights are cooler but still as humid and anyone who ventures outside is begging to be eaten by bugs.  The garden that I planted in April is a mess these days; I haven't been able to tend to it for over a month now.  There are more weeds than plants out there and my lone rosebush had to be cut back severly because it contracted black spot.  And I'm not sleeping much these nights.

But before the garden went completely wild, there were beans.  Glorius and green, bursting with flavor, we ate them the first week Sam came home.  It was sweeter than I can describe, holding Sam in my arms, savoring the taste of hope fulfilled after such a long, fallow season.  I stroked his cheek, watched his mouth move in lazy sucking motions and thought about that April garden, sleepy with promise.  I could hardly believe that after all this time, after so many seasons spent reaping despair, he was finally here, in my arms.  It's a miracle I'm still not over.

The yield was enough that there are bags full of beans in my freezer, stored away for the winter season when flavors go stale with the fading sun.  We'll eat them this winter, feed them to Sam as he tries solids for the first time.  Next year he will crawl across the lawn as I pick the harvest.  He'll be too young just yet to help me plant the next season's crop but he'll be old enough to "help" me pick it.   

I have half a package of bean seeds left from this year's planting.  Next year we will whisper to them together.