I’ve been planted, dug up, replanted. I’ve fought the soil because I found myself forgotten, lonely and vulnerable in a dark foreign place. The packing around made me claustrophobic, I was frightened for no reason since seeds have its own food supply or sustainability. I was buried to be protected, unaware of the storms that passed over me, water was sent my way not to drown me but for my growth.
I had no idea I had all I ever needed where I was at. Wasn’t aware the soil gave me my nutrients to continue to grow. I panicked when I no longer looked the same, didn’t realize my shell was made to shed itself to grow into a harvest.
The farmer was peacefully back in his home, probably eating a meal from his garden. He must have a love for farm-to-table dining. I preferred the moments I could see him, when he held me in his worn but strong hand. I don’t know when I’ll get to see his face again. I hope it’s soon. I hope he will still recognize me. For now I’ll let go of the anxiety and fear, he’ll come back. I know he’ll come back.