Mine has long been empty, and yet I find my way back time and time again. 

Sometimes, I’ll make the effort to dig deep enough to pull a weed out by its roots, just like dad taught me to on those hot summer Mondays perfect for swimming and playing pretend, but not until the chores were done. And on a full-pot-of-coffee-or-two-kind-of day off, my dad would line the three of us up along his bright green meadow of a lawn and show us how to root out a weed with the gentle kind of strength only trial and painful error can teach. Like three tiny sunflowers turning to face the sun, we soaked in as much as we could, and we grew.

Sometimes, I take quiet comfort just resting in the dirt and waiting for time to tell … to tell me its big secret, to tell me why nothing I plant bears fruit, to tell me it’s okay to be no good at gardening, to tell me my thumbs will never be another color other than pale white or sun-stained red and I should take them inside before they burn. Two sunburned thumbs are no help digging up the weeds that must be buried somewhere deep inside, too far gone to find and pull all the way out by their roots.

Two burned thumbs and a garden full of long lost and impossible to dig all the way out weeds must be why nothing I plant ever blossoms. 

Garden beds are funny places to dream. Vases are beautiful places to take comfort.