Her husband came home to find her with her hands covering her face, the kids looking troubled and ignored, and the seed packets scattered on the floor. She faced the difficult task of explaining her dilemma without sounding like a basket case.
“Daniel, the seeds are going to suffocate in our soil.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because it’s not the right kind of dirt. Look, it says right here that the soil needs to be rich, fine and well drained.”
His calm, understanding and practical reply: “They’ll be fine. Seeds are seeds. Some will live. Some will die. Do you want me to plant them?”
“No, I don’t want you to do it either. I just don’t think the soil is right. It isn’t right to plant them just to watch them die,” She couldn’t keep the wail out of her voice.
He couldn’t hide his exasperation when he said, “It’s really no big deal, honey.”
But it was to her. He insisted on planting them as she stayed inside, too humiliated by her odd emotion to stop him. As she had feared, not one seedling ever burst through the dark soil with life.
Well, she may have failed the garden, but at least she had her breads, she thought, as she placed the dough, smooth and elastic, in an oiled bowl to rest and rise. She wiped her hands on a towel and walked to her room where she reread her journal entry, trying not to think about the hapless seeds. But the entry just created a tight feeling in her chest. She stared at the bay tree outside her window and tried to imagine the rich scent of its leaves as she breathed. “I have such a good life,” she whispered.
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