Beautiful dirt

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As a child, I grew up in the fields green and wild. We lived in a hamlet that appeared to have dropped from the sky. In a house surrounded by wild roses and boars, you would often find me eating wild grass that grew just beside the corn. We were like animals, my sister and I, we fought and laughed, but our hands would often be entwined in the green blades that we would pull with all our might. And if ever our mother saw us, we would scamper and hide. “Am I giving you no food that you have to scrape the dirt and feel your ravenous belly?”

We would listen, our eyes downcast and heads shaking sombrely. “Yes mother, we understand.” Then she would run after her, but little rats we were and we would try to dodge the bullet like Keanu Reeves did in The Matrix. Hilarious, though, was when I accidently hit her on the head with a stick that I was swinging by my shoulders like a shepherd; there were no sheep to guard, my mother had her hands full taming us two and there was place for no more animals.

Years have gone by and now I am lost in concrete, there a lot of green near my house but when I reach the city, just lifeless buildings. I miss the roses and that grass, I miss the taste but never the tummy ache that lasted a few days.

Something spring forth from nothing.
The dirt under my finger nails as I pulled the grass, the dirt that mother would chase with her broom and out of the house, the dirt I cleaned furiously from the crevices of my skin… I was a messy child, always full of dirt and always surrounded by it. 

A few days ago I was watering the plants, my mother loves gardening, but she bullies me to water them all. It was surprising how relaxing the activity is, I started with being annoyed at my mother for the extra chore, but slowly it started to grow on me, like a creeper adjusting itself on a brand new wall.

It’s ironic that the dirt never gets its due, it’s because of which the flowers bloom, a tree sings a lullaby and the wind whispers the secrets of people no longer alive. Who would have thought that watering 20 plants would make me realise how they and I are similar since each and every one of has a dirty, flaky past.

But then, we need it too. We need the darkness and the tears, moments of despair and senseless rage, we need this dirt to blossom and spring forth fruit, one that will only happen as long we don’t forget that its from this very dirt the flowers blossoms though.

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