I loved walking the stony cement path that bisected

my grandfather’s garden,

underneath the canopy

formed by the arbor’s delicate gray-green vines,

it’s twisted net roof

like a church ceiling, sturdy and cool.

I especially loved the stray petunias,

unkempt heads peering through the cracks.

 

I still see grandpop walking down the block

toward our house, the sun on his back,

the huge pick slung over his shoulder.

I see him study the mottled strip of ground, grass, weeds,

as if he’s waiting for just the right moment to swing the pick.

I hear it strike the hard surface, split the compacted

top layer, slicing through to the darker part.

This was the garden my mother talked about,

but never started.

 

That summer I planted seeds from a packet–

zinnias, marigolds, my very own petunias,

followed the instructions precisely,

dug holes with the spade, one inch down,

dropped them in, a seed at a time,

spaced three inches apart.

I resisted the urge to plunge my fingers

into the moist, black soil,

but nothing ever grew.

 

I asked my grandpop what I did wrong.

Maybe the dirt? Maybe the seeds?

“Could be this,” he said.

Not enough water? Or, too much?

“Could be that, too.”

I thought he had some secrets to pass on.

“Maybe next year,” he told me.

“Maybe you don’t follow the instructions.

Maybe, next year, you tickle the dirt.”

 

by Linda Pizzi, previously published in The Paterson Literary Review