April 18, 2017
There is a packet of nasturtium seeds in the junk drawer in my kitchen. Early in the morning or late at night, when the house is quiet, I can hear them calling out to me. Their voices are soft, but powerful; they speak of growth, potential, and the glories of a long, golden summer. They want to be planted—to stretch their roots and reach for the sky. The only problem is, it hasn’t been time yet. As I am in the occasional habit of speaking to inanimate things I respond, telling them as much. They just won’t listen.