The Portland Seed Library – Part 2: First Sprout

Sol's garden was a narrow backyard behind a blue bungalow, crowded with raised beds, stakes and a leaning greenhouse. It had stopped raining at last. Weak sun lit the damp soil. Maddie arrived in borrowed boots with a bag of compost and a sprout she had grown on her windowsill.

"A tomato," said Sol, delighted. "Look at him."

"Her. I named her Gertie."

They planted side by side, kneeling in the dirt, hands moving through the earth. They laughed about slugs. They argued kindly about spacing. At one point Maddie smeared mud across her cheek and Sol, without thinking, reached out and wiped it with her thumb. Neither of them moved.

"Maddie."

"Yes?"

"I'd like to kiss you. If that's all right."

"It's more than all right."

The kiss was soft and earthy, the taste of tea and spring. Sol's hands, still warm from the soil, cupped Maddie's face. They sank back on their heels in the damp grass and laughed against each other's mouths.

"Come inside," said Sol. "I've got a fire going. And soup."

"And after the soup?"

"After the soup is entirely up to you."

The bungalow was snug and green, full of plants on every sill. They ate soup at a rickety table, then drifted to the sofa, and from the sofa to the bedroom with the quilt-covered bed. They undressed slowly, tenderly, with a lot of laughter and a little dirt. Sol was gentle and warm, and Maddie was bold and sweet, and they spent the long grey evening finding all the ways they fit. Rain began again on the skylight, soft and steady, singing to the garden.

A week later the first tiny leaves appeared on Gertie, two bright green ears pushed up through the soil. Maddie and Sol stood over her with mugs of tea.

"Heirloom," said Sol, smiling.

"Our first one," said Maddie. She slipped her hand into Sol's. "Let's save the seeds."

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