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Momma's garden beckoned in the half-light. She went out before the sun to pull up weeds and make the dirt look fresh. I watched from the window cringing as she stood to wipe her mud covered hands. She gave me a section to look after, and I did with hesitation. I usually weeded the plants and watered the weeds. Only one small plant grew in my section. I watered it every day so Momma would be proud.

"Why do you like to be in the garden so much?"

I asked her. She rinsed her hands and dried them on her backside.

"Because I made something beautiful. I put my heart into it."

The garden was beautiful. In the summer it was my job to go out and pick lettuce and herbs for dinner. I walked along the small pathways looking at the pregnant bushes and strange flowers. Momma said you could eat certain flowers in a salad. They didn't taste as pretty as they looked.

Hauling soggy hay to the compost pile and arguing with dandelion roots was not my idea of fun. It seemed dumb to take hay and weeds from one place and put them in another. But I did my chores and sometimes I enjoyed myself. In the evenings Momma would light hanging candles around the garden and we have our supper outside. One night Momma said she thought it would be funny if a bird dropped some seeds over the garden.

A few years later Hollyhocks grew without reason. Momma said the birds must have overheard her. The Hollyhocks grew taller than Momma and we told people they were magic.

Every spring we planted rows of seeds and I had to tend to my section. Every year my plant grew taller and fuller.

"Momma every year I plant seeds in my section and they won't grow. I only have that bush."

Momma smiled and pruned her peonies. They smelled so good. I thought they looked like roses. Sometimes Momma let me have a bouquet of them in my room.

"If you want your seeds to grow you have to pay attention to them. You have to put your heart into it."

One year my bush was adorned with the most beautiful flowers I had ever seen. It looked like someone hung pink and white jewels on the branches. I raced inside to tell Momma.

She walked with me over to the garden and smiled.

"Your bleeding heart. You did it."

Now I love my garden just as much as Momma loved hers. My bleeding heart grows freely in it's own little section at the edge. It reminds me to put my all into everything I do. I hope I can dig it up or start a new plant for my daughter. Momma said that the bleeding heart was her grandmother's and almost died a few times. But, it is alive and well living at the edge of my garden. I'm waiting to see what the birds will plant for me. I've always loved daisies.

Learn more about this author, Stacia Elizabeth Whitbeck.
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