My bestie and I really got into gardening this year. Last year, my dad and I built a huge garden area with three raised beds in my backyard. We did our planning and building in the fall and late winter. I wanted the garden space complete come spring, so I would be ready to plant, and plant we did.

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Something about planting a garden, setting down roots, cultivating the soil, says you’re staying.

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I tilled the soil. With my dad. With my boys. I built the garden beds. With my dad. You and I strung the fencing. You built the gate. You helped me plant the seeds, the seedlings, the plants.

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In the dead of winter, in the darker part of my soul, in the middle of the fight, I’d stand at the backdoor, looking out at the unfinished garden. He threatened to take it all away. Home. Children. Livelihood. Garden.

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Looking.

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Crying.

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Praying.

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Hoping.

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Wanting to stay. Holding on to the idea of staying.

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You told me he would never do it. Never be able to. And if it all went away you’d buy me a new one. You’d help me start over.

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Impossible dream.

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Starting over.

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Moving on.

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Something new.

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Impossible.

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My bestie planted a tomato plant that takes 74 days to germinate and produce a tomato. Seventy-four days. We had no idea when she planted it. We just thought she would never get a tomato.

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I’m starting to think I’m a slow grower. Everyone around me seems to know what kind of plant I am. What type of fruit I am capable of producing. They sit, encourage, water, and wait for it to happen.

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I get derailed easily. I doubt myself. A lot. I talk down to myself about what I’m capable of doing.

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Impossible dreams.

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You were an impossible dream.

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Keeping my home, impossible.

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Camping. A camper. Adventure. Travel.

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Impossible.

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You.

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My impossible love.

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Perhaps my dream isn’t all that impossible. You’ve proven few of my dreams are if any. I just have to jump. Or sprout. I have to stop holding back. I have to let go and move.