The Seed
Save the best to last. It’s always been Melly’s approach. Eat the crappy veggies first, then savour the meat. Mop up the gravy then lick the plate clean if there are any smears left. It’s an approach she’s adopted in every aspect of her life. It works a treat when it’s dinner. But it’s a pain in the arse at other times. Kinda like right now.
It’s hot and Melly wants to lie in the shade, listen to the leaves brush against each other, watch clouds wash the sky in hazy wisps, dappling light on her face. That moment, waiting, anticipation tingling her senses with promise. But first, she must do this one line thing. Just this one thing, like a plate of overboiled grey-brown brussel sprouts plagued with bitterness that must be consumed before cake or gin.
Her mouth waters. Just get it over with. She wipes sweat from her brow and digs the trowel into the soil, cutting a neat incision where the seed will be planted.
She pats it, nestled in her pocket. The seed her mum ceremoniously handed to her the day before she died.
“From mother to daughter, repeating time after time,” her mum’s voice cracked with dryness and gravel. “From my grandmother to my mother to me and now to you.”
Melly had cleared her throat, hating the smell of the withered woman lost in the sheets. Her mum had forced the seed into Melly’s hand. It was cold and kind of heavy, about the size of a kidney bean, but rounder. Melly had rushed it into her pocket, “er thanks.” What do you do with an heirloom seed, for fucks sake? “I’ll plant it somewhere special, mum.”
“No, the voice had wheezed at her, whiplike. “To your daughter.”
“Ah yeah, of course.” Another sign of the cancer poisoning her brain with strangeness and strangers.
Twenty years on and she can’t fulfill her mum’s wishes. Melly clutches the seed. It’s still cold even in this heat.
“In you go,” she drops it. Her shoulders lift. Nearly at the good bit of the day. Melly kicks dirt over it, tamps it down, empties her water bottle on it. Now shade.
She lies there watching the leaves, smiling, thinking good things, no longer the last days of cancer brain and unwanted burdens. Melly dozes. The dipping sun and breeze wake her hours later, cold and hungry. Packing up, Melly checks she’s got all her things, phone, glasses, water bottle, trowel. Can’t stop the habitual check of her pocket. The seed. It’s still in her pocket.
Much like last time and the time before and the time before that. The little seed that weighs much. Heavy with expectation, hope, brightness, joy.
Melly staggers home, barely remembering the way. Removes brussel sprouts from the fridge and boils them until their verdant greenness disappears. One by one, they are chewed and she swallows down their bitter mush.
Maybe tomorrow, tomorrow she will plant the seed and it will grow.
