her able hands

It’s time to plant the garlic so it has a chance to sprout and root before the cold weather comes. If it ever comes. We’ve hovered in the low 90s for days now, and the humidity has socked me into myself and made me feel like I’m menopausal. Maybe tonight when I get home from my after-work meeting with Lila’s teacher, I can get the cloves separated and ready to go. Then Wednesday night I can pick a bed and get them buried.

Two winters ago I wrote an essay about planting garlic that Becca kindly helped me to tame into order. I shopped it around a bit, but had no takers. When I read it again recently, I thought “who cares? so you had a good day planting garlic.”

I love how time can help loosen the grip of attachment I get on my work. How it lets me see things in a new light and with a more practical, logical eye. I also love a few sentences in my essay and hope I find a new way to use them one day.

I straddle the row and bend forward to plant each clove, flat end down, point up. After several awkward placements, my body seeks an economy of motion. The bag next to my left foot, I hold several cloves in my left hand, slide the narrow trowel with my right into the crest of the hill, pull the soil forward, place a clove, twist to set it firmly. I stretch forward, dig and pull to open a new hole and close the previous, place the clove, twist, and stretch forward again. My shoulders ache, I bend my knees, dig and pull, place a clove, twist. My balance shifts, I step ahead, move the bag closer, grab more cloves. Repeat.

This is how I approach my days lately.

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