Dormancy
All winter long, we surveyed our brittle yard from towering windows, biting our nails, looking at one another furtively. Bald spots like patchy beard growth dotted the hills. "What is happening?" we wondered aloud. We hoped, we prayed for germination.
Under the lodgepole and ponderosa pines, where my husband on his knees scraped the needles and scattered the seed, the soil hinted that grass would push through the frozen earth this time.
Across town, my fair-haired daughter, seed of mine, sat waiting and longing for a seed of her own.
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