Germination by M.W. Fowler   At first you were a memory of a seed. It had taken me weeks to think of even that. What is your perfect spouse like? And so you began as a memory of a seed. Then, I drew a picture of you as a seed, a stout little man without a beard. I’ve never liked stubble. Fitting your large eyes into the contours was difficult, and just so you could crawl around, I gave you an arm. I left you that way for weeks before going to the lawn and garden store. The employee in the plants section didn’t know what to make of you, and he led us from aisle to aisle as I carried you, comparing you to all of the seed packets, trying to find your family; so I would know your past, your favorite meal, football team, and to receive your mother’s approval, your father’s admiration.  The weathered boyhood farmer surfaced in the employee’s eyes.  You know, he said, all seeds need is a bit of water, time, and sunshine.  So I bought a bag of potting soil, a trowel, gloves, cultivator, clay pot, and a big green watering can. Then, I drove home with you safely inside the glove compartment, and when I got home, I put you in the pot with the soil. I gave you some water before giving you your own space on the balcony. I left you there all week, watering you every few days, and hoping beyond hope that I’d come home from work one afternoon and you would greet me with your head sprouted from the black soil. What would we talk about, what would we have to say?  But one afternoon, you were missing from the balcony ledge.  I screamed and ran to the ledge. It was difficult to look, and I made a quick prayer for your safety before peeking over the side. I thought you had been too eager to please me, and that like Icarus, you had tried to reach for the sun and gone too high too fast. But when I looked, I saw you far below, a body of black soil speckled with bits of white paper, your head crushed by the clay pot. And beside you, for the entire neighborhood to see, was the pink hibiscus

Germination
by M.W. Fowler

At first you were a memory of a seed. It had taken me weeks to think of even that. What is your perfect spouse like? And so you began as a memory of a seed. Then, I drew a picture of you as a seed, a stout little man without a beard. I’ve never liked stubble. Fitting your large eyes into the contours was difficult, and just so you could crawl around, I gave you an arm. I left you that way for weeks before going to the lawn and garden store. The employee in the plants section didn’t know what to make of you, and he led us from aisle to aisle as I carried you, comparing you to all of the seed packets, trying to find your family; so I would know your past, your favorite meal, football team, and to receive your mother’s approval, your father’s admiration.

The weathered boyhood farmer surfaced in the employee’s eyes.

You know, he said, all seeds need is a bit of water, time, and sunshine.

So I bought a bag of potting soil, a trowel, gloves, cultivator, clay pot, and a big green watering can. Then, I drove home with you safely inside the glove compartment, and when I got home, I put you in the pot with the soil. I gave you some water before giving you your own space on the balcony. I left you there all week, watering you every few days, and hoping beyond hope that I’d come home from work one afternoon and you would greet me with your head sprouted from the black soil. What would we talk about, what would we have to say?

But one afternoon, you were missing from the balcony ledge.

I screamed and ran to the ledge. It was difficult to look, and I made a quick prayer for your safety before peeking over the side. I thought you had been too eager to please me, and that like Icarus, you had tried to reach for the sun and gone too high too fast. But when I looked, I saw you far below, a body of black soil speckled with bits of white paper, your head crushed by the clay pot. And beside you, for the entire neighborhood to see, was the pink hibiscus—nothing more than a colorful shrub.