fertilized the second garden box with super less than organic miracle grow, as i can't afford to fix the truck and haul in a truckload of soil. maybe pumpkins, melons, eggplants, peppers, and cucumbers will grow, maybe not. but i like getting dirty. it was almost five years ago that they were built in the heat of the day with smoke and beer in the air, my father drunk and cursing. one of the last times i saw him before he died. it's good to interrupt the barren soil and remind myself the power of growth. that little seeds can steal some life in soil overused and the box frames rotting and broken, broken and rotting uncared for. all the ambition wrapped in the mission of a little seed. he was happy in that sad way he would often carry himself. half-drunk to bury his shame of all the things he failed to do, but dreaming of how things could have been, if he had chosen to be someone else. he beamed with that absent pride, trying to fulfill a legacy he neglected. and we got our hands dirty, breaking into the soil that was treaded without dreams of growing anything else besides invasive crab grass. i was hungover from smoking weed for the first time, serotonin flooding my virgin synapses with plain joy pouring out of my awkward body. that hot sweating summer day we built something, strangers with tangled genetics. and today i stand trying to build something, positive memories of phantom fathers haunting my conscience. i resurrect these broken boxes, full of seeds and less than chance conditions, hoping for growth. resurrecting the days we never knew we'd value so firmly. trying to envision that elusive unknown role, fatherhood... what does it encompass?
and i give these seeds to the soil wondering if it's safe to feel hopeful.
