With Thumbs as Black as Night

     Poetic as it may sound, it is sadly true.  Some people who lack the "green thumbs" that skilled gardeners so often take for granted have learned to come to grips with the disability.  But not I.  Try as I may, try as I might...well, basically I just keep trying.  And trying.  Now, keep in mind that I have lived in the scorching hot and bone dry desert most of my seed bearing years.  (Meaning years I've been responsible enough to take care of a potted, living thing.  My doctor does, however, assure me the other ones are quite good and without plans of mass evacuation any time soon.)  I used this death-bringer as a crutch for my inadequacies in the growing department for some time, until I realized that even the plants inside the house were dying.  The ones in the house on the table I sit by every night were dying.  The ones beside the sink I put my dishes in several times a day were dying.  As I began moving all of my brown shriveled feats to the bathroom next to my toothbrush (my grandma always said to put things you need to remember on a note on the bathroom mirror, I like to improve upon advice.  It's kind of like leaving the trail cleaner then you found it.), I knew it would not work.
   
     The feeling of grief and disappointment I found in myself was profound.  I had never felt anything like it.  Before this, and people who know me well will say still to this day, I would tend to turn a blind eye to my own faults.  Who's critical and controlling?  Me? You must have me mistaken for someone else.  But really, profound grief and disappointment.  I had black thumbs.  Not even just black, but blackest black, like the mascara.  My thumbs were like calling the kettle black, black. Finally seeing this shortcoming was like seeing a little a little part of me die.  Would I ever know the deep satisfaction of watching a tiny fleck of hope sprout into reality, and grow to absolution?  Would I ever know the sweet taste of victory, or the real taste of something I grew with my own two hands?  I told myself no.  I told myself to forget it.  I told myself that stuff was for trowel-toting prune-eating pruners.  But there was an urge.
   
     It persisted through day and night, through love and hate, through good and evil.  And so I planted.  I watched, and I waited.  Waiting...waiting...waiting.  Then, just as I was about to etch tortured and dying houseplants into my bathroom mirror, there it was.  Life.  A life I had made, nurtured, supported (it's amazing what 3 weeks of staring at something can do).  At that moment it was nothing and everything all at once.  Barely more than 1/8 of an inch tall, but an entire 1/8 of an inch tall!  Careful not to pee my pants in the process, I placed it by the sink to let in take in its fist gulps of glorious sunlight.  After several days, it had grown nearly 2 inches (so jealous!).  Every time I looked at it my heart skipped a little beat.  Soon it would be a beautiful tomato-bearing goddess, engulfing me in her loving leaves every time I took a bite.  I imagined myself basking in her nutrient-giving fruit.  Oh, the glorious times we would have together, her and I arm in arm, skipping through meadows and such.  A sense of contentment spread through me.  I was complete.
   
     Tonight my husband knocked all 2 inches into the sink.  My thumbs looked up at me and smiled.