Green Thumb

Gia lifted the dirt from the bag into a pot, using an old yogurt container. It was a slow process, but it let her keep the dirt loose.

She poured another container-full in, and another, and another. Finally, the pot was filled. She took her seeds, poked them in, and covered them over. Taking the yogurt container, she filled it with water, walked back to the pot, and carefully emptied it in, moistening the soil.

Gia looked at her handiwork for a moment, then left it, walking away.

She watered the soil again a week later, and again a week after that. Finally, life pushed through, a small shoot of green poking out of the dirt.

Gia nurtured it, watering it, and tried to fend off the birds that came hunting for food. The little plant grew, and was joined by two others, smaller but growing.

When the first plant reached eight centimetres, she transferred it to a new pot. She did the same for one of the other two, separating the siblings into private rooms so they could grow on their own, unimpeded. She kept watering and watching them grow.

At twenty centimetres, the plants stopped growing, and pushed out their first buds. The buds soon bloomed, pretty little flowers of white and yellow and pink. The flowers died, and new buds pushed forth, new flowers popped.

Gia kept caring for her little plants, loving the changes, the steadiness of the stalks and leaves. She watered, added occasional bits of nutrients, sang to them, but otherwise let them grow, be their own things.

When fall came, and the plants drooped and died away, she mourned for them. She considered a funeral, but knew that would just be silly.

She buried them in their homes, and waited for the next spring.

 

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