I am sitting in Jennifer’s backyard, watching him dig. He is creating a garden. For weeks, there have been soda bottles and gallon-sized jugs and plastic cups filled with dirt and seedlings. Tomatoes. Melons. Peppers. Beans and peas in what used to be egg cartons. He transplanted a blackberry bush into a pot, last night, with the intent of taking it with him when he moves to the north pole in little over a year.
He has been talking to the worms, telling them to hide from the robin who will bring his friends and swoop in for some grub.
He’s a good soul.
And I am amazed at his patience. His excitement over the prospect of how beautiful the garden will be in a few months, his willingness to pull rotted roots from the ground, haul rocks, rake and sift through the dirt. I can’t help but wonder if that is how he thought of me, when we first became friends. The crazy girl in an abusive relationship with an anxiety problem and suicidal tendencies. Worth the work, because there is the possibility of beauty and goodness. Maybe. Doubtful, but maybe.
I think he’s just a good person.
But he takes pride in his work, and it makes me smile to see him giddy at the sight of new seedlings sprouting in the kitchen or to listen to him talk excitedly about how the dirt isn’t as bad as he thought it was going to be.
I want to have a window box where I grow herbs. I want to get as excited about growing something as Jennifer is. I want something to nurture.
We’ll see. I am not as patient as he is.