The Portland Seed Library – Part 1: Heirloom

"That one is Cherokee Purple," said Sol.

"They look identical."

"They are different in the way twins are different. Look closer." Sol held out a tiny envelope in her palm. "Everyone has a story. So does every seed."

The seed library was a small bright room in the back of a Portland community centre, with wooden drawers labelled in careful handwriting and a window full of rain. Shelves of jars. Hand-drawn charts. A table covered in paper envelopes and a half-finished jigsaw. Maddie, thirty-four, a landscape designer between jobs, had signed up to volunteer on a whim and found herself at a desk with a magnifying glass and a woman who knew everything about beans.

Sol, thirty-seven, the head librarian, was soft-spoken, freckled, in a green apron with soil under her nails. She wore her curly hair in a loose twist held by a pencil and talked about seeds the way other people talked about music. "People come in with a story," she said. "A grandmother's bean. A pepper from the old country. We keep them going."

Maddie learned the system quickly: sorting, labelling, weighing, logging. She learned the names. Brandywine, Mortgage Lifter, Black Krim. She learned that Sol hummed when she concentrated and always made tea when it rained.

"It rains a lot here," said Maddie.

"It does." Sol smiled. "You keep volunteering."

"I do."

"Why?"

Maddie looked at the seed envelope in her hand. "For the beans," she said. Then, more softly, "And for you."

Sol put down the magnifier. Her freckled cheeks went pink. "Maddie. Would you like to plant something with me this weekend? A real garden. Mine."

"I'd love that."

Continue the story: Part 2 – First Sprout.

Continue the story: Part 2 – First Sprout.