The Nursery in Our Nursery

We moved into our house 18 months ago.

Packed in everything we had and

purchased more until every room felt full.

Covered floors with beds with blankets and

wrapped tables in chairs until that empty husk was home.

Strained backs and scuffed knees to battle weeds and

draw produce from the clay.

We're walking the Great American Line between contentment and clutter,

but everything has its place and every room has its purpose.

Except for one.

We said our vows 22 months ago.

Made plans and promises when witnesses could gather and

lovers could chase the winds of wanderlust Westward.

Checked every box and charted our destiny

with the certainty of newlyweds.

Threw ourselves into the work of surrendering

down the path to victory until we'd done Every Thing on our List.

Except for one.

My wife started her garden 18 months ago.

Fought the heat and the bugs, the shadows and the frost.

I watched her watch others do the impossible;

peering into their pristine worlds through the portal in her hand.

They could start seeds in closets that became towering things

reaching toward the sun.

In time, she found what time gave them.

The garden grew.

But the room stayed empty.

Now we're moving seeds out of the closet.

Placing floormats where the rug should go.

Building shelves instead of cribs.

The place we saved for tiny bottles is home to watering cans;

the walls we painted blue are just the backdrop to an artificial sun.

There are other gardeners in our palms,

with rooms that serve their purpose.

Familiar faces next to new ones every day.

We cheer for them,

but we can't ignore the echoes in that empty room.

But I've seen Lauren build a garden on the clay,

which gives me hope that those seedlings may yet bloom.