I remember tracing the creased lines on your warm, dirt covered hands when you taught me how to garden. Your greying red hair glistened in the summer sun as we sowed the carrot seeds and planted the onion bulbs.
In that moment, my dream was to become a farmer.
I loved the smell of the fresh soil and the spaghetti grandpa was cooking inside the house.
I thought those things that we did back then would be forever but now the memories are slipping through my fingers.
I can’t remember if you said that I had a green thumb or if you said I was growing like a weed. I can’t remember if the mean dog next door was a bulldog or a pit bull
I can’t recall a time when grandpa could walk without a cane or when grandma cared at all about her garden.
Now they don’t live in that old house anymore.
They live in a two bedroom apartment and the only plants they have are a small potted tomato on the balcony and flowers on the kitchen table.
I’m scared to grow up especially if it means growing old, to forget everything of the past and to not care about what is to come.
I’m scared that I’m not doing enough because life is too beautiful to waste and too important to forget.
