The Spirit of Seeds

The wind howled like a lioness asking for her mate. A long, drawn out burst of chaos followed by waves of silence. The tree branches pleaded for the breaks as each gust sent another leaf into the control of Earth’s gravity.

“Do you need anything before bed?” My husband asks behind me. I shake my head no and he steps back inside. I wasn’t going to sleep tonight.

I start making my way towards the forest. Step after step my bare feet sink into the moist, spongy soil. The wind blows my hair in front of my face and it smells like stale ice. Winter is almost here and though my skin wishes for more layers, I embrace the prickles of the chill. The full moon illuminates the dark shapes of the forest. In between the roars of leaves that sound like rushing waterfalls, whispers appear.

Please, save us. The beg sounds like a crying child.

I don’t know how. I have been to all the meetings. I used my voice until my soul was done screaming and past that when I fell exhausted on the floor of city council.

“The vote passes unanimously.” Bang! The gavel strikes the hardwood that came from another forest far from here, ringing in my memory as a nightmare. Gone will be the glitter of cottonwood trees, gone will be the homes of fledglings, gone will be the sweet smell of honeysuckle with buzzing bees around it.

The opening deep in the forest still had seeds and I wanted them. A part of the forest that will live on, even if the future generations that were supposed to follow the ones here, will no longer be born. How silly of me to think the destiny of a forest that has lived for thousands of years will be here for thousands more. The dried seeds fall into my hands. A black eyed susan mother pokes my numb skin. The skeleton of Maximilian sunflowers tap on my shoulder. “I won’t forget you,” I promised the plant.

Time was not measured, but when I saw the moon fade from directly overhead, I decided to walk home. The path was darkened by the absence of light. Unable to turn around before I realized what was in front of me, I paused, motionless. A guttural growl sounds from a lynx and he isn’t alone.

“Please,” I beg like the forest. “I tried to save your home. Please spare me.” The group steps forward and I come to the realization of my last breath. As the lynx jumps I cover my face with my arms and scream. Nothing touches me. I open my eyes as a line of figures stand in front of me, blocking the hungry teeth. Gently, they usher the chain of lynx away. The collective group turns towards me as their light illumination distorts their features from my dark-adjusted eyes.

“Thank you,” I cry to the figures. “Who are you?”

“We are the spirits of the plants you collected,” the middle one spoke. I could now see the fully bloomed Maximilian sunflowers covering their body. “You took our seeds to give them a new life. We want to offer the same to you, so we saved you like you saved us.” I feel the lumpy bags of seeds in my pockets.

“I’m so sorry about your home. I tried to save it.”

“We know. If you come back and collect more seeds, we promise to rebuild wherever you can find us a new home.” I nod, knowing how difficult it is for the seeds to germinate in a place they have never been. But they were willing to do so as long as I was willing to help.

“I will. I promise.”

Every night I went back to the forest and collected more seeds. By the next full moon the place was officially marked off and destruction had begun. And even then, I kept going back, until all that was left was a small patch barely big enough to fit two feet on. By the New Year, the bare soil acted as a graveyard for the plants. The rushing rapids of leaves were no more and the silence no longer had a whisper.

In the spring I saw a lonely owl fly overhead, trying to find a nest in a tree that only existed in memory. A post at the front of the cemetery read “Evergreen Trails: coming soon!” Cuts of asphalt and dirt marked the first house and then the second, eventually each puzzle piece fit together like an illustrious murder scene. The first creature on the new buildings was a mourning dove, though it did not remember the forest, and therefore was not actually in mourning.

I thought of places I could put the next generation of plants. I could buy land, but I had no money. I could plant them in my own yard, but it was too small for all of them. I could make a deal with a farmer, but none I knew of existed outside of controlled agriculture. Every day that passed was a lost opportunity of growth. I had to make a decision. While walking downtown I spotted a sign stating the place and time for the next local farmer’s market. “Yes!” I thought. “I will sell the plants at the farmer’s market so they can go to many new homes!”

I spent every day for the next four weeks preparing the seedlings to sell. I had negotiated volunteer hours for seedling trays and bartered homemade bread for soil. As promised by their spirits, the seeds all germinated into sprouts that looked reminiscent of a children’s drawing of a plant. Simple, with two leaves, bright green, and upright. At the market, I heard the murmurs of other plants, talking about their given traits. “Organic is best!” “Grown to maximize antioxidant nutrients!” I never knew plants could require so many labels. The spirits had promised growth, but not interest. For my first market, only five people bought the plants. They weren’t flashy and no one knew their backstory. Worst of all, despite my efforts, it seemed like no one cared or rather passed me off as a grifter trying to sell popular native-to-our-area plants that really weren’t from here. I promised the plants I would try to find them their new homes though, so giving up wasn’t an option. Week after week I kept going back. “Maybe I should give them away for free?” I thought more often than not. The other sellers would not be happy if I did so, even if no one seemed to want the plants anyway. One day, as I was closing up, a gentleman stopped by the booth.

“What kind of plants are these?” He asked, pointing towards the long purple bloom.

“That is button blazing star from the field where Evergreen Trails now resides.”

“If that’s where Evergreen Trails is, how did you get the plant?”

“I picked all the seeds before they built the housing development and grew these plants myself.” The man lets out an inquisitive grunt and walks away. I continue to pack up, assuming he wasn’t interested, until a tap on the table catches my attention back. He had gone to get a woman.

“I told my wife what you said and we would like to buy a plant from each different type you have. We just moved into Evergreen Trails and were looking for something to liven up our front yard space.” My stomach drops from excitement, not only are they going to a home, but they are going back home. I gave one of each as the man asked, feeling the joy in each plant as it was handed off.

The next week I set up my farmer’s market booth as normal. A woman, pointing in my direction walks up with someone whom I assumed was her friend.

“Are you the seller that sold to our neighbor in Evergreen Trails?” The woman asks.

“I did sell a plant of each type to a gentleman and his wife last week.”

“We would like some for our yards as well. They are so beautiful!” Both the women carefully pick out their plants. Another person walks up and starts talking to one of the women.

“Yes Liam, these are the exact same ones.” She gestures towards her favorites, the passionflower and prairie coreopsis.

“Are there discounts if I buy in bulk?” The man named Liam asks.

“Of course,” I reply. I had never thought about it, thinking no one would ever have such a notion for my plants. My spirits start to rise as neighbor after neighbor finds my booth. By the end of the day I had one milkweed plant left that I gifted to a young girl who promised to take good care of it.

That night I sat on my porch and thought about the forest. I hadn’t seen the area since the houses finished being built. But on this evening, as summer still lingered in the air and as the cicadas’ symphony filled my ears, I followed the feeling I had to trek the walk I had done so many times before. As I got closer I heard it again. The whispers happened in synchrony with the crickets and tree frogs. This time it wasn’t in a begging sorrow but in song. The song was rejoiceful. It spoke of fruit harvests, flowers for the pollinators, and roots for the soil fungus to wrap around deep underground.

Thank you. The whispers sounded.

Making my way into the neighborhood I saw a reflection of the old forest. The seeds I gathered all those months ago filled the lawns of the new residents. Every house held a memory, a life forgotten by nearly everyone. My promise had been fulfilled as I took in the colors of yellows, purples, oranges, and reds. It wasn’t only me who cared, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel alone in the fight for the forest I once knew like a friend. This was a new friend. Not as eloquent as before and not quite as wild, but it was here. And in that moment, I let myself feel hope for the future.

In my dreams the spirits visited me, thanking me for giving them back to their home. Year after year I continued my booth at the farmer’s market, using the seeds from my plants and my neighbor’s plants to grow the next generation. And every year more and more people welcomed the plants into their own homes and their own yards, so much so, that as I went anywhere around my town I heard the singing whispers. And as my life continued I realized it was never the end of the world, but the opportunity for a new version of it. Because at the end of the day, the little seeds that supplied the little plants grew into a big difference made.