Odds of Survival

     I've always been cavalier when handling potting soil. These instances are few and far between, and, most times, my mom's by my side. Out in the garden, she does a great deal of fussing because I'm "too lazy to just slip on the gloves when [I'm wrist-deep] in cow shit." The sun and heat irritate her, and beneath her red whicker hat (approximately eighteen inches in diameter) I see it in her eyes. They're lidded because "[I] don't listen." Even below the hat, they squint with stubborn persistence as if battling through direct sunrays; they focus on the build-up under my nails and on my feigned ignorance. In extreme vexation, caused by forces other than the sun or heat, her nostrils flare, and her lips pucker. She even shakes her head in disapproval. When I was a kid, she often shouted outright. A true Aries. 

     In eighth grade, she was overwhelmed with pride when I managed to grow morning glories, plants whose vines creep and whose blossoms bloom only in the AM. I remember after they sprouted and gained a bit of height, she insisted that I remove the strongest one from its snug container and plant it beneath one of the two ten-foot-tall pine trees in the front yard. I felt anxiety, and I doubted its odds of survival; I'd put work into nurturing it and wanted (actually very desperately) for it to live. I was afraid for this seedling, afraid of the elements. But I understood that it needed breathing space. She assured me there was no need to worry, and so I didn't. 

     Every morning that fall when I stood at the bus stop directly in front of my house, I looked at the poor pine that suffocated under so many brilliant, blue blossoms. At thirteen and fourteen years old, at about 7:20 every day, the dreariness and drudgery lifted from my world for a few minutes, and the morning didn't seem so bad. In those moments, my breath was stolen. That's how beautiful it was. 

     Now, I have rows of shallots and a wealth of marigolds peeking up from the earth. I don't think the marigolds will match the robustness I saw in every one of those morning glories, but that remains to be seen. At least my mother was there by my side this time, shaking her head in disapproval.