Seeds in a Suitcase
On Abuela's last morning, the suitcase stood by the kitchen door like a patient red animal. Mateo sat with his chin on the table. "Planes are too far," he said. Abuela slid a cream packet toward him. "Then let's send something that grows."
Mateo tipped the packet. Striped seeds rolled into his palm, black and white like tiny zebras. "Same packet," Abuela said. "Same sunflowers. Even when I'm far." Dog sniffed the seeds, and Mateo laughed and closed his hand. "Not for eating."
They counted out the seeds together, ten for Mateo and a few for Abuela. Those she wrapped in a napkin and tucked in the corner of the Suitcase, beside her slippers. "My garden will want them," she said. Mateo checked the napkin twice, just to be sure.
Out in the Back garden, the soil was cool and dark. Abuela hummed a little tune while she knelt. Mateo knew the tune was about water. "We need words," he said. "A watering song needs words." Abuela grinned. "Then we'll make them up."
Abuela held the last seed between two fingers. "One for the garden, or one for your window? You pick where yours grows." Mateo looked at the soil, then at his bedroom window above. It was a real decision, and he took it seriously.
Where does Mateo plant his seeds?
