Counting Seeds

A bumblebee hovered. Fat and purposeful as a small dirigible. It landed on a foxglove bell, disappeared inside.

The old man's face was a map of rivers. Creases ran from eyes to jaw. Stubble white as sugar. His cardigan hung loose at the elbows, garden soil embedded in the wool like memories. Hands that looked borrowed from tree roots.

"Look there." His voice like gravel under tires.

Cece crouched beside him. Her face round as a sunflower, freckles scattered like seeds. Red wellies despite the dry day. Denim pinafore with a unicorn patch coming unstuck at one corner. Hair in messy pigtails caught sunlight like copper wire.

"Six beans," she said. Small fingers pointed, trembling with excitement.

BotBot nodded. "We planted ten."

"Where are the others?" Her eyebrows pinched together like caterpillars touching.

"Not everything grows." He removed his flat cap, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief worn thin as autumn leaves. "Just because some do doesn't mean all will."

She pushed soil with her toe. Face clouded like sudden rain.

"Like Granny's fish pie," he said. "You took one bite. Said you hated it."

"I did." Her jaw set firm as a stone wall.

"But you only tried a little bit. Not enough to know for sure."

Wind combed through the apple tree. A blackbird answered with notes clear as water.

They moved to the strawberry patch. Red dots against dark leaves like ladybirds sleeping.

"Pick some," he said.

Cece's fingers darted like minnows among the leaves. Emerged with three perfect berries. Plump. Bright red.

"All berries this good?" he asked. Eyes narrowed against sun, wrinkles deepening like furrows.

She nodded. Juice stained her chin. Her smile curved wide as a half moon.

"But you only picked the pretty ones." He lifted a leaf with fingers gnarled as oak twigs. "See these small ones? The pale ones?"

"Don't want those." She shook her head. Pigtails swinging like pendulums.

The garden was small. An Oxfordshire cottage garden. Messy as a child's bedroom. Alive as a city.

"Your knee," he said suddenly. Tapped his own knee for emphasis. "When you fell last summer."

She touched the spot. No scar. Fingers butterfly-light.

"Granny gave you that purple plaster. Said it was magic."

"Made it better," Cece said. Nodded with the certainty of a judge.

"Knees heal anyway." He dug another hole. Shoulders hunched like a question mark. "Sometimes things happen together. Doesn't mean one caused the other. Do purple plasters really make things better?"

He made a row of small holes. Ten. Then ten more. Precise as a clock's ticking.

"Why so many?" she asked. Head tilted like a curious sparrow.

"More tries. Better chance of being right." His hands were steady as church pillars. "One carrot might not grow. Twenty carrots, some will."

"More is better," she said. Rocked on her heels, impatient as wind.

"Sometimes."

Cece helped. Small handfuls of soil. Patting gently. Face serious as a surgeon's.

"The courgettes died." She pointed to the withered stalks. Bottom lip protruding like a shelf.

"Too much sun there." He sighed. A sound dry as autumn leaves. "What works in one spot doesn't work everywhere."

She nodded. Pretended understanding. Eyes wide and dark as wet stones.

In the corner, tomato plants climbed. Three different kinds. Green fruit hanging like Christmas ornaments.

"Last year all the tomatoes got sick," he said. Gestured with hands that spoke their own language.

"Yucky and brown." She wrinkled her nose like crumpled paper.

"So I planted different kinds this time. If one fails, we still have others."

"Like my wellies," she said. Tapped her red boots together. "Wellies for gardening and sparkly shoes for parties!"

"Smart girl." He ruffled her hair. Gentle as mist.

The flowers stood in uneven heights. Some tall. Some short. A crowd at a concert.

"All flowers grow different," he told her. "Some tall, some short. Most in the middle."

"Like people?" She stretched up on tiptoes, measuring herself against his side.

"Just like people." His smile brief as a camera flash.

The sun moved higher. Midday approaching. He stood. Bones protesting like old stairs.

"Enough gardening."

Cece put her small hand in his large one. Soil embedded in both their lifelines. Her fingers, pink and plump as worms. His, brown and knotted as aged wood.

"BotBot, will the beans be ready tomorrow?"

He looked at the garden. Unpredictable as weather. Wild as dreams. Beautiful as memory.

"Maybe. Maybe not. Nothing's certain."

She accepted this with a philosopher's shrug. They walked toward the cottage, her steps skipping, his measured as poetry.

At the garden gate, a bumblebee rose from a lavender stalk. Circled once around them, like a full stop seeking its sentence. Then flew away, certain of things they could never know.