Next Spring — Crewneck Sweatshirt

You have a small envelope of seeds from a garden you know by heart. The envelope has a year on it and, less helpfully, the word these. At the time, these was a perfectly precise description. You and the person who gave them to you were standing beside the plant. Several seasons later, your confidence in the handwriting is doing more work than your memory.

You ring them. They remember giving you seeds. They remember the weather, the neighbor who came through the gate, and a fairly involved disagreement about a hose. The name of the plant takes longer. Eventually they say to put them in and see what happens. It is the sort of advice they give about quite a lot of things, although usually with more conviction than evidence.

That afternoon you are out in the olive crewneck, holding the little envelope over a patch you have made ready. You leave enough space. You put a marker in. You write a more useful label than these, then stand back with the unreasonable satisfaction of someone who has arranged something with the future.

When the first green appears, you send a photograph. They reply almost at once. You had expected congratulations. You receive a question about whether that is the sunny side, followed by a second message saying how pleased they are. You know the order is accidental. You keep both messages.

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