Sunday, August 21, 2011
My son is growing marigolds...
Sometimes he overpours, flooding the tiny seedlings; creating a pool of drifting dirt, streaking the clay pot with water.
"Careful," I warn "you don't want to over-water them."
"Yeah," he says both concerned and yet unflappable. He knows what he's doing. Even if he doesn't, I must let him figure it out on his own. Let him color outside the lines. Let him spill and fall and piss and yell. Sometimes I have to hold my tongue, watch the dirt float to the top. Try again next time.
My son is growing.
It wasn't so long ago that I was growing a seedling of my own.
I wonder if he bites his tongue for me sometimes. Ignores the fact that I cry so easily, curse a little too much, let my head drift a little too far into the atmosphere because sometimes it's afraid of the cold, hard ground.
"Be careful" he says.
We keep each others dirt tended, cared for. And out of our eyes marigolds grow.