Milkweed

I was walking my old wiry terrier yesterday just as the sun was just going down. I passed by my neighbor’s house up the street and saw her in her garden, snipping weeds. She  quite old, and looks like something out of a fairy tale, grey haired, stooped over, prominent nose—I could almost picture her with a cape and a hood handing me an apple. She handed me a pomegranate instead.

You can tell they’re ready when the skin starts to split open, she said. Her pomegranate tree is beautiful, with fruit that looks like upside down crimson crowns. And here’s a persimmon she said, snipping one off her fecund tree.

I tell her that whenever I pass by her garden, I see so many butterflies fluttering about with their black and orange angel wings. They bring me so much joy! You must have milkweed, I say.

Yes, she said, and shows me some plants here and there.

I want to plant some, I tell her. I could use some more butterflies in my life.

She knows what I’m saying beneath those words. The election, about which I’m still stunned and heartbroken.

What are your plans to survive the next four years, I asked. I plan to garden, she says.

And you must plant some milkweed. Here’s a pod, she said, pointing out a long, green slim pod. Come by and check it every so often. When it’s dried and almost ready to burst, pick it and then scatter the seeds in your garden. And take a sprig of the flower so you’ll remember what the plant looks like.

This is what I’m holding on to right now. My community. The inherent kindness in so many. The generosity of others. I will check on that milkweed pod, and when it’s ready to burst, I will bring it into my garden, scatter its seeds, wait for it to grow, and for the butterflies to come.

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