Sometimes I wonder what kind of memories we are creating for our children. When they look back on the cool landscape of their growing years, what will the aperture of their minds bring forth? Already I see how they have forgotten the many ways we have loved them. Already they forget the long hours spent poring over stories together, the tucking in and the answering heart-questions awakened by the night. What will they remember? The question fills me with dread and longing.
This morning Jeffrey lay on the couch beside me as I picked through my morning reading. I read Psalm 7 aloud to him, aware of a question in his eyes. When I was finished, he asked about gay marriage, about the Bible, about what I thought.
When he left me, I went out to take pictures of the purple-blossomed eggplant, the new peppers budding, the shy white flowers of the pole beans. When we returned from the ocean two weeks ago, I had to move all of my pepper plants to the other raised bed because the tomatoes had grown so much they were buried alive. I was worried the transplant would disrupt their growth cycle but I have given them such tender care. And we’ve had so much rain they have been happy to have more room to spread their leaves and blossom.
I pinched off a few spotted leaves on my tomato plants and thought about seed memories. Will they remember love? Or will the struggle to burst through the walls of that hard seed shell erase the memory of the soft soilbed?
I wonder. I wonder. But for now, I will continue to water, to prune, to tend my small garden with care.