We fought about screen time, all the irritation of the day’s length balled up in our words. Later, I stood outside in the garden and pushed a seed into the soil. A prayer, perhaps. Given or, more likely, received. I don’t know what to do with these days that are in between, when you come and lean your head into the soft spot between my shoulder and chest, but do not rest the other parts of your body against me. I remember you as always wanting to be attached; to my breasts, in my arms, against my back in the carrier, tucked next to me in the dark. I don’t know what to do with the come and go needs of your almost-teenage heart. So, I push a seed into the soil and another, then another, each seed a breath out. My tending of you looks different these days, I realize as my fingers slide each seed into its place in the earth. I listen, I feed, I open my arms when you approach, and luckily I still feel your orbit around me, fainter, but always circling.
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