Impossible Things

 1.  Granted I didn't plan for the impossible.  This might be why I survived it.  Had I prepared, I never would have left the farm, never would have packed the vintage green bulldog planter that belonged to Ila, the little embroidered chicken magnet on the fridge, never would have left the potatoes and onions in the dirt.  "Will you please take what's there and eat it when it's ready?  Don't let it just grow and..."  Lynn looked at me, nodding.  Farmers don't say a lot.  He'd never plant 1200 acres of seed only to watch the brown canvas of dirt rise green, crest golden, dry, freeze, fall back invisible into the dirt once again, would never just walk away from a field full of seeds.

"We'll be sure it gets harvested."

I have walked away from three gardens in my life, not knowing that I wouldn't be there for the harvest.

Even so, I don't regret planting them.  We can't live thinking we might as well not do a damn thing because we won't see its end or enjoy its fruits.  Cathedrals take over a hundred years to build, a project completed over several generations.  They still rise, the blooming flower of stained glass lifted high to the sun.  The orchard on the farm was an effort of love planted by folks who had never met Nora or me.  And they fed us with love.

2.  Now when I pass the farm on 364th, it takes most of what I possess of self-control (which is not much honestly) not to jump from the truck and pick the crab grass and weeds choking Ila's bearded irises, hang the moth traps she taught me to hang on the apple trees in spring (milk jug, banana peel, cup of sugar, cup of vinegar), run to the back of the shed where I know the best asparagus is starting to show, pull out a 20 pound bag of cheap cat food for the feral feline crew who keep the rabbits from the garden.  And when I see my garden three feet high in lambsquarter and the fenced in area we made to keep Nora away from the large farm equipment that passed by now filled with dog houses and chains...the orchard a parking lot filled with dead cars...

3.  The land has memories.  Small feet that beat tiny rhythms into the lawn grew larger, walked slower, knelt often.  The old man who grew up there who lay down under the tree in the yard his grandfather planted after the hogs had been loaded and sold and simply enjoyed the sky and clouds, an unusual moment of rest for someone who seemed to always be working.  And I turned away from the window knowing I had stumbled on a man who thought no one could see him gentle and happy, the feeling of grass beneath him.  The peace of that moment is still pressed into the ground, into my heart.

I did the same one late night when Nora had finally fallen asleep, where I let myself be held and rocked by the cool grass and hard earth below me, the stars singing me back into a place where I was taken care of too.  And I slept.

4.  Another when Ila walked bent and gray to the cherry tree that held hundreds of jars of jam in its bony fingers all those years handing them over to her when they were red and ready.  Half of it had fallen in the night, the wind so strong on these flat lands.  She reached out her hand, lacing her own fingers with what was left of the tree and wept.  I couldn't watch, lowering my head as I did my dishes in her sink.

5.  It was impossible not to be aware of the passing of all moment, the most precious, that had hung light and alive in that house.  The masking tape inside the closet in Nora's room where Ila's own daughter grew up marking her height:  1964.  1968.  1970.  I added Nora's beside it:  2007.  2008.  2013.

6.  Oh, homesick ghosts.  Now where will you make your home?

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