A fickle weather report resulted in arid night soil. Despite the humidity, I know the kitchen garden’s thirst is likely as strong as my desire to grab a flashlight and go outside to fill the can and do what would have been done had I checked again earlier and saw the cloud shift.
How can I expect them to survive, these children I one day hope to eat like Cronos did his own? I feel as cruel as he, though my planned timeline for their demise is longer than he gave his own. Yet I have greater fear of even the whiff of the skunks I know wander through at night than I fear for their health and wellbeing.
Hold fast, young plants! Water will come to you with the dawn. Forgive this terrible mother, and don’t let one night’s scarcity stem your growing selves.
(Yes, I know my brain heads in odd directions sometimes. Other times, my thinking seems to take a more even path, too.)
