Turning The Soil

Turning The Soil

Knees pressing, back stretching, shoulders pulling, hands reaching deeply into the damp earth, she begins the garden early, early in the day. There is a lightening of the sky, but no sun yet. Birds tentatively chirp and chit and cluck as they test their tongues for the task ahead. Dawn will break soon, and the earth will move into a new day.

Turning the soil over in her hands, and watching the clumps dissolve; kneading the dirt like a luscious loaf of bread to be baked, this has become her ritual for gardening. The soil releases a smell of dank, earthy, richness that she can’t remember smelling anywhere else although she has walked this earth nearly 87 years. Only down on her knees, now-gnarled hands working the soil personally, intimately, this is how the special smell releases its aroma.

The garden gets smaller and smaller. She realized that a few years ago. It was unconscious for a long time, leaving off a row here, a section there. Stopping when she got tired, there was a little extra room for scattering sunflower seeds, or putting in a few stones, or just letting the grass reach a few new tendrils. Then around her birthday, what was it? three years? four years ago? She realized she just got tired a lot earlier, and wasn’t making the garden as big. She was shocked at first, that she could have fooled herself for so long. So proud that she was able to garden when so many of her friends were either dead or in wheelchairs.

Ah, the pride that goes before a fall. She is glad to know, now, that her garden diminishes with passing time. Her garden, her gardening, has a natural life and rhythm. She doesn’t have to think about it, or worry about it, or fret. She can simply reach down, and turn the soil. Now and then her thoughts wander and she can see the tiniest of garden patches. Maybe just a few feet. Of turned soil. Where she will rest. For eternity.