Abundance

 Purple Prince. Mortgage Lifter. Brandywine. Cherokee Chief. All varieties of heirloom tomatoes, straining pendulously at the end of their vines. There are also supposed to be Yellow Pear, but they look suspiciously like Pineapple, golden on top, and crimson striped at the base. Sometimes, with heirlooms, you roll the dice.

If the old pear tree had not died, the gnarled dogwood that thrived in its shadow might have lasted longer. But with both remnants of the old farm that once stood on this place gone, it has opened up new opportunities. Suddenly, this corner is sunny.

A dove finds morsels in the dying dogwood tree.

My U-Haul still rests in the gravel driveway, but my shovels were packed last, so my first act in returning here is to turn the soil. Just as I remembered, there are pottery shards and bits of glass. An old neck to a glass bottle, emblazoned with the word CHLOROX is the day's best archaeological find.

Five spindly tomato plants, from Novelli's Florist a few blocks away, go into the soil. Also cucumbers and chard and peppers, and, almost as an afterthought, the contents of a packet of cactus flowered zinnia seeds. I drive a section of rusty iron fence, brought with me from Philadelphia, into my native soil to be their support.

Two months later, this humble garden, at best five feet square, is abundant with life. Hummingbirds and Monarchs wage aerial battles for the choicest zinnia nectar, while honeybees buzz contentedly below them, caked in pollen. A rabbit reclines languidly, hopper feet kicked back, chewing all the grass in a circle it can reach from this repose, until the fat long haired gray neighborhood cat approaches, and the rabbit, perturbed, hops half-heartedly into the hydrangeas.

This little patch. Placed as almost an afterthought. It never occurs to me not to: I just plant stuff, wherever I go.

And on this August night, the sunlight is golden. The crickets, impossibly loud. And I realize: everything is right here. We all have more than we need. Abundance. Life, overflowing. From a packet of zinnia seeds.