Seed

People think birth is romantic. Nature is romantic. Truth is, someone spat you out last year during a barbeque party. You were part of a salad, or a tzatziki dip. Somewhere in the house there’s a scrapbook with the menu of that night written in flowery letters, and a Swiss toothpick flag stuck to the page.

There were three of you, covered in a film of saliva. That’s how your life started – pff, pff, pff. Hardly romantic, is it? You flew into the air, dived into the soil. Lucky for you, it was in the vegetable garden, and she later turned that soil. Hid you without even knowing you were there. 

Germinating

You slept through the winter. Then spring came and the soil warmed up as the days grew longer. Rain fell, followed by the sun. March, April, May. Then a little piece of you found its exit through the shell and fought its way through the soil. You knew the direction; you followed the warmth. Now that’s romantic, that’s a miracle. So tender, so strong. It’s a question of determination. Of survival. And of not finding a stone in between 

Seedling

Camouflaged among the baby weeds, your shoulders now squeeze into the soil. One last push and you peek into the air. You spread your germinating leaves like chicks experimenting the width of their wings. Ah, a sigh of relief. You bathe in the sun, and luckily your first proper leaves appear before she starts preparing the vegetable garden for the new season. She can’t believe her eyes when she recognises you. There’s no telling if she remembers that barbecue night. 

Plant

You stretch into the sky and send tentacles into the air, little antennas seeking something to hold on to. And when they do they curl all around it, like a toddler repeating My, My, My at every turn. She helps you too, tying little pieces of cord to help you up. She pours water onto your roots. You suck it, spreading it to every little tentacle. 

Flower

Yellow flowers start to bloom, hidden under the leaves. Bumblebees find their way and dive into them, sliding down the petals, squeezing in between, powdering their wings and wrapping their body in pollen, and then flying away to leave space for a beetle or a butterfly. The real treasure, however, is forming at the flowers’ end: inch-long promises of refreshment.

Fruit

Sipping water from the roots, feeding on diluted compost and mineral tea, the fruits grow till leaves can no longer conceal even the best hidden cucumber. She comes with a bowl one morning, picks planted tomatoes – such a cliché – and walks towards you. She weighs the fruits in her hands, feeling their firmness, and then picks one, two, three. 

There’s a barbecue party tonight. The menu includes salad with home-grown cucumbers. A yearly tradition. 

©

Slawka G. Scarso has published several books on wine in Italy and works as a copywriter and translator. Her short fiction has appeared in Mslexia, Spelk, Ellipsis Zine, Flash Frontier. She lives between Rome and Geneva with her husband and Labrador, Tessa. She loves volcanoes, gardening and silence. You can find her on Twitter (nanopausa), Instagram (nanopausa) and Facebook: (https://www.facebook.com/slawka.g.scarso)