What They Planted in Autumn

Inspired by a Curtis Brown Creative writing contest

When they planted last autumn, they had no idea of what would emerge in spring. The seeds were the tiniest words, “I” and “you.” “I do,” she said, meaning also, “Not ‘I’ but ‘you’ first.” He repeated, “I do” also intending, “You first.” Small poppyseeds of words that hid in molars from their bites of lemon-poppyseed-buttercream wedding cake. Seeds, swallowed, digested, sprouted into bone, marrow, sinew, skin. 

They planted more in late autumn, gave thanks, carved a carcass, and broke a bone to grant one wish. She baked a pie and buried the pumpkin seeds in the trashcan. Other seeds buried in her womb. 

In late winter, he planted a wee plastic baby in batter, baked, sliced, and served the king cake to her in bed where she confined to wait, fret, and grow the other thing they planted last autumn. “You first. Do you want some?” She offered. He repeated what he said last autumn, “I do,” but what he meant was, “You first.” When he chewed his bite, he chomped on the baby Jesus—a gift that secured his luck for the year. He spat out the plastic baby and offered it to her. Smiling, she put the Jesus in her own mouth, tasting his luck. They shared everything, babies and fortune. He brushed off her mouth, tucked her curls behind her ear, swiped cake crumbs from the quilt. Seeds were not as easily uprooted as crumbs. Seeds germinated into muscle, leukocytes, nerves, organs. 

When the seed inside her burst into bloom and erupted out of the spring soil of her seed bed, they held the plucked fruit of their planting and evaluated: His nose? Her eyes? Whose ears? Here was proof the planting had grafted. No longer “I.” Not “You,” either. In the coming seasons, “We do.”