13 Sep

When I was a little girl, we grew a lot of our own food. We were poor and my parents were hippies.

One late spring when I was five years old, we spent the afternoon planting. My father had already cultivated the dirt and fertilized it. He showed us how to use a string to make straight rows. I liked planting corn best, because the growing vitamins turned it pink. Corn and potatoes went at the top of the garden and the viney things were at the bottom. It was balmy and calmy—no one was fighting or crying or doing anything wrong. The sun was just setting was we trudged back up to the horrible farmhouse we lived in. And all of a sudden, the bottom just fell out. It was raining something fierce when just a moment ago there was orange light sifting through the weird trees that grew in the sideyard. And my sister and I ran for the door, shrieking with laughter and singing, “It’s raining, it’s pouring…” Our dusty little feet took us home. I don’t remember what happened after that.

If I could live one day over again, I suppose it’d be that one.

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