Gardens

I was, as you were, an egg in blossom, a blood sac flowering in an amniotic garden. I was, as you were, an embryonic bud that also budded tuberosities, buds that later became head and limbs. Why then does my mother not imprint herself in me, she who carried that coded replicating jigsaw of humanity for so long? Why does my father not ever feel to be a portion of my being? A biological milieu shaped, genetics built their blocks yet where a mother could have created rooms of inception and potential there she remains not. Beyond inherited appearance parents leave no inward hand or footprints. I think of clay, being sculpted, molded, made to be a certain form and identity. The artists hands impart, shapes a vision, both thought and imagination in motion. Yet gestation and birth is an ongoing separation; a planting left to be alone in a field of aloneness. Parenthood is ‘after the fact’, we are absentee gardeners. It is best this way though, better to realize that we are grown to be alone, and not a part of any truth except our own. Verily they who declare they have no father or mother on this earth live in grace, and garden not in this world but the next.