I Garden Now
I don’t know what I’m doing
I garden now. I don’t know what I’m doing. But I have a big hat, and I order seeds from a seed purveyor online. I use the term seed purveyor. I speak in the present tense as if I’m narrating a contemporary novel. Or as if I’m someone who lives relentlessly in the moment.
Approximately one billion seeds arrive in my mailbox. They each need anywhere from six to twelve inches of space. This seems like a lot. Like perhaps more land that I have access to, like perhaps more land in my whole neighborhood. I find myself wondering if each seed makes a flower or a whole plant that bears many flowers.
This seems like something I should have considered, or perhaps something I should already know since I’ve been masquerading as an adult for such a long time. I don’t. Neither does anyone I ask. Maybe it’s because we all grew up in cities; maybe it’s because we all have allergies and see the outdoors as an adversary.
The seeds are so small. Miniscule. I wonder if I need glasses. My child drops anywhere from seventeen to three thousand. I’m sure it’s fine.
I start with measuring — exactly nine inches in between each zinnia, space the violas six inches apart. Eucalyptus needs a whole foot. That just seems greedy, Eucalyptus. By the end of the day, it’s devil may care, seeds for everyone! I…
