You have heard it said. Consider the lilies.
But I say to you
consider the potato.
Two months ago I dug deep holes in the earth
and planted split, old, inedible potato pieces
into the garden in the appointed rows.
Today I went to the garden to grieve.
Sixteen days ago we buried Aunt Grace.
On the hill. Where I knew she would eventually go.
The weeds had sprung up,
the potato stalks were shriveled and tired.
I ripped at the weeds. Angry at their insolence.
And then one stalk bore witness to a miracle yet unseen.
The tiniest potato clung to the roots uprooted.
A minute promise.
With spade in hand and hope in heart,
I dug. Carefully. Gently.
Where I had planted half a potato I counted twelve.
Beautiful. Whole. Perfect.
I went to the garden to grieve.
And left rejoicing.
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