Things on the allotment have started coming to flower and fruition - things like roses and chives and broad beans and pinks and mint and jasmine and strawberries and thyme and garlic and rhubarb and four types of lettuce leaf and raspberries and two new potatoes and rosemary and one onion. Enough things to get me knowing how to celebrate my son’s birthday today.
Sons may grow (I am thankful). They grow up and grow away grow tall and grow their own music and grow into not needing a 3rd / 6th / 11th birthday party with a Spider-Man suit and candles and party rings and pass the parcel and a cake like a football pitch or a Rubik’s cube or made entirely from ice cream and Oreo’s.
I was wondering about this growing and flowering and fruiting and separation and this birthday in particular and my need to celebrate my son and remember his birth-coming and my self as mother, earthed and physical as I was when I carried him.
This year’s so-far growth - and last year’s leftover growth - helped me into knowing.
Yesterday - The Harvest:
The plenty enough for my imagination and gratitude and the hunger of my senses.
The scent of mint and jasmine and pinks and roses
The touch of each lettuce leaf picked
And today - The Celebration Meal
The sight of the harvest (with salmon and pasta caught from my freezer).
The sound of water bubbling round potatoes
The taste of the year so far, and of the long-drawn out maturation of last year’s green tomato chutney
