I'm not sure about this gift. This tangle of dried roots curled into a fist. This gnarl I've let sit for weeks beside the toaster and cookbooks on a bed of speckled granite. What am I waiting for? Online I find Rose of Jericho prayers and rituals for safe birth, well-being, warding off the evil eye. At first I thought I'd buy some white stones, a porcelain bowl. But I didn't and I didn't. I don't believe in omens. This still fist of possibility all wrapped up in itself. There it sat through the holidays, into the New Year. Through all the days I've been gone. Dormant. But today, in an inch of water, out of curiosity, I awakened the soul of Jericho. Limb by limb it unfolded and turned moss green. It reminded me of the northwest, its lush undergrowth, how twice despite the leaden clouds, the rain, I found happiness there. From tumbleweed to lush fern flower, reversible, repeatable. And what am I to make of this? Me, this woman who doesn't believe. Doesn't take anything on faith. I won't let it rot. I'll monitor the water level. Keep the mold at bay. I tend things, but I do not pray. Copyright © 2017 Cindy Veach. Used with permission of the author. |
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