He plants the seeds, making dips in the soil with his bare hands. They're rough and calloused from the years of gripping shovel handles and tractor wheels, strong from milking goats and cows and holding little girl's hands. He takes the time to relax here, after long days and the high pitched chatter at home. His seven daughters have almost deafened him to the pitches above a certain decibel. He plants, as a means to provide. He plants, because the smell of tilled earth and the sweet taste of cherry tomatoes on a summer's day are his idea of heaven on earth.
The sun sets over his garden, the patch of land he claims all his own. As his eyes adjust to the light, he covers the last of his seeds with damp soil and walks up the slight slope back to his home. It's clear enough to see the ocean today, though it's mile away, and he stops to pick a swollen tangerine from last year's tree. It tastes the way the air feels, cool and sugary on his tongue. He saves half to share with his daughters, with his wife. This is the life he has earned, the life he has worked hard to maintain. The gardener opens the door, and smiles.
|Throwback Thursday, anyone|
Linking up with Lisa-Jo tonight. Whenever someone mentions gardens, I can't help but think of my dad. This is for him, the gardener, the man who taught me it takes patience to make things grow. <3