The Seed Review

Illumination Zinnia Seed Review, Zone 6A, Indianapolis, IN, August 17th, 2020

Right under highway 65 by the children’s museum, I noticed a tent city expanding like mold. I’m ashamed to say now that I complained to the police. At the red light by work.

I felt like I could touch the nylon fabric. I bought these seeds as an act of silent forgiveness. I bought them for a woman who lives in the orange tent by the barricade. I snipped more than a dozen of these vivacious double blooms and brought them to the tents in a 1-gallon mason jar. The grime on her fingernails haunted me until I returned with more tall stems the next week. The water level hadn’t dropped. The flowers were a bit wilted. The only real difference was that a small circle had been swept clear around the jar like a fresh tablecloth.

Castelfranco Radicchio, Zone 5A, Middlebury, VT, October 4th, 2020

Our sun has a wind, which creates the ballerina skirt of our solar system. These heads of radicchio have that same loose, flowing shape. My father loved the bitterness of radicchio, and his head looked just like these red flecked greens at the end of his life. His lungs were too damaged to battle this disease. When I turn around, I’m still surprised that my father isn’t standing in the kitchen hunting for soft cheese. When the Voyager turned around to snap that famous picture of our little blue dot, it was barely visible in a sunbeam.

Bloody Dock (Red Sorrel) Seed Review, Zone 4A, Bismarck, ND, January 12th, 2021

It is 7 degrees outside, and these plants are flourishing in my apartment’s new hydroponic system. The landlord only asked if I had pets. So… I put on Mojo 107.5 and mounted the PVC pipes against the wall like a giant heating coil. I love that this system relies on something so simple: gravity. Each plant dangles their toes into the continuously pumping nutrient solution like an endless summer. Sometimes, between zoom calls, I put on my bathing suit and stretch out on the couch under the purple grow lights. Don’t tell my boss. On second thought, go ahead. Tell him. I haven’t shaved my legs since March.

Landis Winter Lettuce, Zone 7A, Dover, DE, March 7th, 2021

At first, this lettuce was no larger than Janet Jackson’s pasty in 2004. Then, in November, it apparently went into its own personal bunker. I was convinced it had died. I was wrong. It leapt back out the dirt like Jon Snow and then flourished into impressive heads by February. Now, I can get rid of my roller skates. Now, I can quit saving for that stupid bidet. I don’t know why this gorgeous lettuce signals the end for me. But, here we are, and I’ve invited my Thursday night crew back inside for guac and Grey’s.

Georgia Southern Collards, Zone 6A, Woonsocket, RI, May 1st, 2021

These little seedlings started out so thin that the wind snapped many of them in half when I first planted them, and only after this morning do I understand what happened. I went into a local cafe for the first time in over a year, and people were seated inside nibbling their scones like India wasn’t being flayed open by this virus. I couldn’t withstand the trauma of normalcy, so I walked out. I hurried back to my garden rows. I found the three remaining collards and knelt down to them. I kissed their sun-soaked leaves. I had come to expect them to grow. I had never thanked them before, saying you were a seed, and now I share my body with you. I doubt I’ll ever be the same, but what I do know is that soil has a longer memory than we do.

Dan Mallette lives and teaches high school in San Antonio, Texas with his wife, two sons, and two dogs. Currently, he writes just enough and plays outside in the backyard with his sons in the afternoons.