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My nephew, Copeland, and his sister, Madalyn, were helping me plant a garden at my parents’ house. Copeland asked, “Frank! Frank! If you, if you plant, if you plant a seed in someone’s garden, if you plant a seed in someone’s garden, and it grows, is it still yours?”
“Copeland, if you plant a seed in someone’s garden and it grows, you owe child support.”
My siblings and I are now grown. So each spring I give my parents matching fruit trees to raise.
A bag of trash hurled from a passing car. Straw wrappers and other fast food scraps blew across the field. Some seeds took hold. Plants surfaced from the soil. Jessie, my ninety-five year old great-grandmother, hammered stakes in the ground and fixed the vines with pantyhose. It was her smallest, simplest and final garden.