The cell packs make crinkle sounds. I lift a pansy from its little space and loosen the root-bound ball. I open a new home with my trowel in the potted earth, and set her there, bringing soil up around her shoulders, pressing gently down. I soak her with well water; she drinks deep.
Soon, a mass of color in a mass of potter's clay. Now-hollow cell packs gone topsy-turvy across the potting bench. I putter, I hum, and I plant, pot after pot in the shed shade.
It's more than pretty flowers. It's seed, broken loose with life and promise, earth and water and sun bringing it full-round. A revolution that captures the heart and mind, just to see it happen right there before you, like that. My Grandma knew. My Mama does, too.
And here am I, next in line, growing food, growing beauty, growing.
Yes, growing.
