Monday, January 25, 2016

mustard seed

It is a cardboard box from Detroit. Four of her books, a handwritten note, the story, her grandmother's necklace, and a small, fat, plastic bag. Typed on the bag are the words

MUSTARD
SEED

It is likely that the contents of the small, fat, plastic bag are what is considered to be those tiny round seeds people would just throw into a field or pasture. I don't know, but they have stayed in the windowsill for all these years.







He was born to a simpleton, it seems. I try to understand the spreadsheet.








I decided somewhere somehow and in some way that school was abhorrent to me. Tenth grade, I think. We moved and came back and soon after I made a claim that education was not for me.
(insert photo of my Dad wanting to thump me on my head)
Though I did graduate high school, it didn't look like I did it willingly.
(I don't even like the girl I was when you met me.)









We are cooking, and she is washing her hands between ingredients.

"What is that?"

"Where?"

"Up there. That little bag. It says, 'Mustard seed.'"

"She was a writer from Texas who lived in Detroit. She could write an ending like nobody I had ever seen. Shocking, she was. She sent me those, and I don't know if she wanted me to plant them, but it just seemed better to keep them. So there they sit, the mustard seeds. It's a story in the Bible, kid."



One of Michelle's books was titled Make Yourself Small.







Today I am grateful for a bag of mustard seeds and last night's reminder of it's significance.



2 comments:

Anonymous said...

Diamond in the rough, you polished out pretty well.

Shea Goff said...

Oh heck. I'm the same as I ever was. I still don't even plant the seeds. I put them on a shelf.