Seed

A short story about a seed and the lives it intertwines

Published in the Tiger Moth Review - “𝗦𝗮𝗱𝗶𝗲 𝗥𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗺𝗮𝗻’s short story follows the passage of a rare seed and the lives it intertwines. At its crux, every character in 𝐒𝐞𝐞𝐝 has to contend with choosing between the delight of an immediate payoff versus an investment in an egalitarian future.”

SEED

A woman was handed a seed but not taught what to do with it. She put it in her pocket, where it stayed.

Years passed.

When she outgrew the jeans, and was about to throw them away, the seed fell out intact. Almost gleaming. Soft and small in her hands. It was nice to have something to hold, a little reminder. Potent and full of potential. She put it in a wooden box.

The wooden box flew around the world with her. She was always moving, from place to place, never settled. Never planting. Never growing, either; just constantly chopped, uprooted. The seed waited. The seed was patient. Its notions of time were different. The woman grew old.

She searched her brother’s attic, a place where she had deposited a few things when they needed depositing. She had continued searching, all her life, but still hadn’t come down to it: the basis of who she was. She was old now, and running out of time.

She thought she might find herself somewhere in her brother’s attic. She found her seed instead.

There it sat, amongst other treasures. A pearl necklace from her grandma. A little note from a first love. Her mother’s beaded bracelet, decorated with orchids and birds. And the seed. That seed she had never planted.

The woman filled with bile; to have been given such a gift, but never to have done anything with it. It shriveled her, tight and small.

Perhaps the seed could have fruited to feed a village. The seed could have become a tree, around which her own grandchildren could orient themselves. The tree could have housed birds, insects, and dimensions; it could have shaded her from the sun, so dangerously hot now. It could have been a balm for hunger. It could have been something to hold onto, to climb, to grip.

Or, she could have sold the seed and made a lot of money. Seeds, now, were even more valuable than they’d been back then; then they were rare but still in circulation, passed from hand to hand. Now they were worth at least thousands, auctioned over and given as gifts between the elite.

She rotated its tininess in her fingertips.

She went downstairs, where her brother sat at the table with his wife. They had done something she hadn’t; chosen a place, and stayed. Built a home for themselves, even on such shaky ground, and had children. A semblance of the life towards which they’d been raised.

“Look what I found,” she said.

Her brother perked. She held up and then handed over the seed. She sat down, plastic chair scraping against linoleum. She waited for him to say something, but he did not. He gazed at the seed, his look growing solemn.

“There’s a tree I see sometimes in dreams,” he said. “Do you remember it? When we were young, it was by the swimming pool. It was really old, I think.”

“Yes, of course. We tried to balance on the roots. We made a whole game out of it,” she remembered. They’d fall into the squishy soft grass, the shade glorious above them, clouds and blue sky only peeking through. Their world had been so soft back then. “Is this from that tree, you think?” she asked.

Her brother shook his head. “No. But when that tree comes into my dreams, it is always talking to me.”

“What does it say?”

“I’m not sure. I think, well, I think it’s trying to teach me something.”

“The lost art,” her brother’s wife said.

Some remembered the lost art. But they kept their secrets close, and charged a lot of money for it. They were hired by the ultra-rich, it was said, to plant great groves in some secret place where the wealthy could pretend that time was normal again.

“I think,” said her brother, “That they’re still among us. Trees we’ve known. And I think we can learn how to work with them, if we tap in.” He looked up at his sister, eyes welling. “I think it’s always closer than we think. Maybe there are no boundaries between inner knowings, ours and theirs. Maybe we can all access the lost art.”

His wife nodded vehemently. “That seed,” she pointed, “is our chance to test out what we feel. It’s our chance to at least try.”

The old woman tightened her grip on the seed in her hand. She’d been ready to give it to her brother, who had patch enough of land to try to make it grow, a miracle worth courting. But perhaps it was too late; his mind was clearly going, and his wife’s. What was this they were saying about dreams? What rubbish.

Perhaps it was hasty to give the seed up, after all. She didn’t want to lose the potential, all the possibilities she could still carry. Perhaps that was not something she should simply give away.

Her brother sighed. “I already tried planting mine. It failed.”

“Yours?”

“You don’t remember? We were both given those seeds. ”

“I can’t remember,” she admitted. Many chapters of her life were whited out, and this was the way it had always been. She had never figured out how to make it one whole, long thing.

Her brother sighed. “It was passed down, an inheritance. Mine failed.”

“But we can try again,” her brother’s wife leaned in. “With your seed.” She tightened her grip. The world outside was not safe for such a precious thing. Maybe she would just keep her seed to herself.

Her brother and his wife continued to lean towards her, hungry for life, ready to take it from her. “Sister,” her brother’s eyes creased. “Think what we could do with a tree.” Seed in hand, she fled.

It was a cold winter. She moved into an apartment above a garage in a city she’d never been to before, coastal. Waves loomed heavily and crashed on the beach. She kept her seed safe, in a drawer she locked with a key. She wore the key around her neck.

Then one day, like everyone must, she died. Hit by a car. Crossing the street. Her brother was notified. He and his family came. They selected a coffin; plastic, all they could afford. Carefully, he pried the key loose from her neck. He went to her apartment. He searched for the lock that would fit.

Still, the seed gleamed. He took it into his hands, and he broke. He cried for his sister, tears dousing the seed. The seed had forgotten how thirsty it had been, and slurped up the tears for dear life. It throbbed in his hands.

“I will plant you, I will plant you,” he cried.

“Did you find it?” his wife asked, when he emerged from the apartment onto the scorching street. He nodded. “Such a sad life my sister lived,” he hung his head. His wife tensed. She’d never forgiven, or understood, that sister; even now, after death. “She kept her whole life to herself,” she couldn’t help but chide. He shook his head, pitying. “She just did not know how to live.”

“None of us know,” his wife argued. “But we still tried, didn’t we?”

He closed his eyes. He unfurled his hand, revealing the seed in his palm. “My dear,” he said, “This seed is old, like us. I don’t know if it works anymore.”

“You know nothing,” his wife clucked.

They waited. They needed to get the timing right. The seasons were fickle, now. The wife waited patiently. She’d prepare breakfast; synthetic orange juice, synthetic pancakes, synthetic jams. Always, he’d come down again, bleary-eyed. “Not yet,” he’d say again. “I’ll know when it’s time. Not yet.”

The man could not admit, even to himself, that he was afraid. If the seed failed, what would be left? What would become of the hope that he stewarded?

Years passed.

One day, the husband did not wake up. The wife waited, over a cup of synthetic grapefruit juice, until she understood.

She walked upstairs, where her husband lay still. She did not check for his breath. She drifted to the small mock-porcelain box on the bedside table, and opened it. There was the seed. She picked it up, cursed it and hurled it across the room. Then she began making funeral arrangements.

After a few hours of sitting silently, unable to move, she reluctantly went back up and retrieved the seed from where it had been thrown. Even still, it gleamed. She held it in her wrinkled palm.

Staring at this small, bright speck of hope, she wondered if her life had been for naught. Was there any meaning, anymore?

Her children arrived. She hadn’t seen them in years. They were busy, always busy, working. Life was expensive. They even brought their laptops to the table as they ate. She put the seed down in front of them, between the laptops, and said nothing. Son and daughter closed their laptops, click, click.

After a silence, Son asked, “Do you know how much this is worth?”

“Your father and I dreamed of planting it.”

“You must be crazy,” said Daughter. “It’s nearly impossible to plant these things. You need a professional.”

“Much better to sell,” Son agreed.

“I can arrange a buyer,” Daughter eyed Son.

This could be their ticket: to a life of rest and relaxation, at one of the sanctuaries. The Daughter’s mind raced to the places she could go, places she’d only seen on TV. The mountains, the beach. The Son began composing a resignation letter in his head. Their mother shook her head. “Your father and I had a dream.”

Son and Daughter stared at each other, dumbfounded. “Dream?” Daughter finally sputtered. Son tried not to laugh.

Of course, they’d never had a dream in their lives. There was too much to do and think about. No time for dreams. Not even in sleep.

Mother tried not to cry.

“Please,” the Daughter finally said, voice tender. “Let me arrange a buyer for this seed. We’ll all never have to worry again. We’ll all be set for life.”

Mother shook her head, nearly erupting with tears. “What is the purpose of living, if there is no more life in it?”

Son and Daughter looked at each other, bereft. They themselves had not had any children. It didn’t make financial sense.

They gathered their breath. “Do you know how hard we work?” Both of them asked. “Do you know what this seed could mean?”

“Yes, but, for what?” Mother asked. “For what, if we can’t even…” She fled up the stairs.

Brother and sister waited until night to discuss, after Mother was sure to be asleep. “We could steal it,” suggested Brother.

“I don’t know,” said Sister. “I don’t know if I can steal from Mom.”

“What if we let her try to plant it?” Brother asked. “Will it be safe in the ground?” “I think I’ve heard seeds die in the ground, if they don’t grow,” said Sister. “I think I read it somewhere.”

“You read?”

Sister laughed. “I used to. A long time ago.”

“I wonder...” Brother’s eyes glazed. “Do you think we can read how to plant a seed?” “What, you want to grow the seed too?” Sister sputtered.

Brother shrugged. A part of him did. He couldn’t explain it. Who didn’t want a tree of their own? It didn’t make financial sense, though.

Sister huffed. They agreed on nothing. The funeral happened, and they both returned to their homes and lives, unable to stop thinking about what their mother had beside her bed. As long as she didn’t do anything stupid with it—which she well might—one day, that seed could be theirs.

Their inheritance.

So much money.

Brother was able to move on with his life, put the seed out of his mind, but Sister became obsessed. It began to interfere with her work. She started to type “seed” into search engines, scrolling for clues. Random hours of the day, she’d imagine the seed, how it could sprout, as she waited in lines or sat on the train for her commute.

Then one day, on her dating app, she came across a profile with a strange emoji. It looked like a seed. She swiped right. The screen went green. “Meet me tonight,” she wrote.

He was a strange sort of man that she would never normally date. He wore large spectacles, which had long gone out of fashion, and a scratchy cardigan. He had a musty smell. But she smiled sweetly, strategically. He sat down beside her at the bar. She bought him two drinks. This cost her a good amount of her paycheck. But it was worth it, she thought.

They tried to make conversation, but failed. He was impenetrable. When she moved her body towards his, he moved away. “Why did you meet me?” she finally asked, frustrated. He shrugged. “Something about you.”

“I have a seed,” she blurted, then bit her lip. Her cheeks flamed.

He stared at her. She thought the world might have stopped. “Come,” he said. “I knew that’s what it was,” he muttered as they walked out from the bar, onto the street. “I knew I had to meet you.” He was pleased. He’d been training his intuition. And this was affirmation; life itself could reach into the minds of the searching worthy. “So are you one of the planters?” she asked, trying to keep up. “You know, I mean, ‘the lost art’?”

He laughed, his smile broad.

“You had a seed emoji!”

He quickened his pace. “Come.”

Down alleyways they walked, routes she had never taken. Finally they stopped at a door that led underground. The boy with a seed-emoji opened it, and beckoned for her to follow.

She could hardly believe what she saw. Floor to ceiling, stacked with books; real, paper books. It was a library! Everyone inside, quiet people, looked a bit like this man, quaint and out of fashion. They bent over books on long tables or cushions on the floors. A jazz band played in the corner.

But what really struck her was the center of it all.

“Is that a tree?” she whispered.

The boy nodded. “Cherry,” he whispered back. “We planted it ourselves.” “You have… cherries?” the girl asked.

“We could plant your seed too,” said the boy. “I know we can. We have a method. We use sun lamps.”

“And then what?” the girl asked. “What would we do with it?”

“Share it.”

The girl couldn’t help but giggle. She took a step back. “Why would I do that?” The boy gestured about the room, as though it was an answer in itself. The girl’s brow crinkled. “What would I get out of sharing it?”

“What else would you do with it?” The boy asked.

“I could get a lot of money for it. You know this.” The girl looked around. “I could also get a lot of money for outing all of this. The press would love this.” The boy shook his head. “You could never find it again.”

“Wouldn’t it be in my phone’s history?”

He smirked. “Not this place.”

She hated that smirk. “No way am I sharing my seed. It’s worth so much fucking money.”

“Don’t trade it for money,” the boy crossed his arms. “Trade it for life.” She stared at him.

“The lost art,” he pleaded.

The girl sighed. “Look, can you help me or not? I love books and all, I’ve been looking for one for ages, but this idea of yours won’t put food on my table.” “Trees will,” the boy nodded patiently. “Think of us as a living laboratory. A living laboratory that you can join. We are learning how to grow our own food. How to circulate knowledge. How to feed ourselves, in every way. Eventually, we won’t need money to live this way.”

They looked at each other for a moment. The boy removed his spectacles. The girl blinked, several times. Finally she said, “I’m sorry but that’s ridiculous.” “Is it?” the boy asked.

“That’s just not the way the real world works,” she shook her head, and backed away.

-

The mother guarded the seed until her life was nearly over. The decision burdened her greatly, as she knew her days were running out. Try to plant the seed, which she felt could be a life’s purpose, or leave it for her children to sell? Her bloodline could end, curdled, in a wad of nowhere. Was it enough? Was it the only tree she had left: her children’s need for money? Was this where the story ended?

If the secret library had found her, she could have had another choice. But they did not. And, to be honest, their cherry tree only lasted so long. When there was no cherry jam left to sell on the black market, the library collective had to sell their books. Then they lived in an empty house, their dreams turning to legends, jars emptying, shelves dwindling, nothing left.

One night, finally, the mother had a dream. Her husband, dearly beloved, had become a tree. She reached for him, touching the branches of his arms and inhaling his wood musk smell. The sap of his eyelids. The syrup of his breath. She held him close, her husband. Love. This earth. The way it was and could still be.

She woke up and picked up her seed.

Out she went, on a day that she deemed sacred. It wasn’t much, her little patch of bare and broken earth. But she had tended it viciously, waiting for a day like this. It was time.

She knelt, and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath. She felt for her husband, the tree, the wind through his limbs.

She summoned every tree she had ever met in childhood, and in dreams thereafter. She summoned everything she had ever eaten that a tree had given; apples, peaches, juice running down her hands. Nectarines. Guava. She summoned up every cell within her body that those trees had become, every part of her that had once been tree. All the wisdom of every body, exchanging breath. Life, as it laced everything.

And then she parted the earth with her hands.