Plant Nut

For my tenth birthday, grandmother sent me a packet of zinnia seeds. “These are my favorites for a hot sunny spot. I hope they grow for you in Africa,” she wrote in her spider web handwriting.

I tore the top off the packet and looked inside. These were seeds? They looked like bits of chaff. Still, it was something to do. I dug holes in the hard-baked sand with a spoon, poking the papery seeds in with my finger, then watered them with a pot from the kitchen.

I didn’t think those seeds would grow, that anything could sprout, much less survive in the parched sterile sand of our new home. But a few days later, I noticed cracks in the hard crust of dirt I’d been watering. The next day, they’d widened, revealing pale sturdy shoots, the empty seed husks atop them like jaunty caps. The day after that, the stems were darkened and split in two - the first brave leaves. Every day, almost every hour, it seemed, there was something new, some miracle unfolding. The sprouts grew and branched, then budded and finally, blossomed into enormous discs of brilliant, saturated reds and oranges, purples and yellows. I was entranced. Captivated. And hooked for life.

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