Soil Inventory
I keep finding my mother in dirt. Not bones, not ghosts, but the way soil behaves after rain—how it softens without apology.
After she died, I stopped throwing anything away. Coffee grounds. Eggshells. Leaves curling at the edges of decay.
My neighbors think I am growing food.
I am growing evidence.
The garden behind my house becomes a ledger: what survives, what returns, what refuses to leave me alone.
Sometimes I kneel and press my hands into the earth just to confirm it is still willing to hold me.
It always is, even when I forget how to be held.
Photo Credit: Fujoshi Bijou
bravo, special xx