A Seed At A Time
Post-apocalyptic hope blooms as a reluctant gardener cultivates survival. A tale of resilience, unlikely friendships, and humanity's rebirth.
After the rains, time slipped away. The next thing I remember are beeping machines, a clammy hand on my cheek.
“You’re awake,” a voice said, relief mixed with exhaustion. Their warm cotton sleeves brushed against me body as they redid dressings, unhooked machines, and dropped a cup and pills into my shaking fingers.
“Drink,” they said, voice echoing from further away. They must’ve sensed my hesitation as they added, “They’ll get you moving. This hospital is at capacity, so the sooner you recover, the better.”
Not comforting at all, but I swallowed. My memory fades to sensations: cool earth, crunchy stones, humid air, frayed blankets.
It picks up again days later, when someone entered the space with the faintest footsteps.
“How are you feeling?” A woman whispered with a voice so familiar, but one I didn’t remember. This was one of many hints to come of my memory loss. I acknowledge it now, but I ignored it then.
“It’s me. I’m so glad you’re awake. We need your help,” she said, warm hands clasping my bony fingers. My inability to reply didn’t worry her. She stood and paced the room while she explained what had happened.
I don’t recall her exact words, but she discussed the great storms that’d wiped out most human settlement. The Explorers heard of our plight and sent help. Entire governments and institutions have collapsed, leaving a collective of elder women to take charge.
Scientists estimated a quarter of the population died in the disaster, and another third needed medical care afterward.
She shared her struggles: negotiating with explorers, rebuilding, sleepless nights devoted to keeping humanity alive.
I’m amazed she had the energy. Thankfully, disasters bring out the best in extraordinary people. Hang on. Not sure how much going off track you’ll tolerate, so I’ll try not to.
At last, she revealed what she needed me for. “I want you to rebuild our food supply with a produce garden.”
Only then did I regain speech. “Why here? Why now?”
She sighed, and sat on the edge of my bed again, weary bones creaking. “Though the explorers are generous in their aid, if they don’t see us attempting to feed ourselves, they’ll withdraw all their support. Everyone’s arguing about it, and you’re the only one I trust to make it happen.”
The silence fell between us while she allowed me to consider her offer.
“Will you?” she asked.
I nodded and felt the warmth of her smile.
Weeks after that initial conversation, and when the harried doctors pronounced me healed, she visited again.
She led me through long tunnels. The walls, porous and hollowed by time and human hands, echoed with hurried footsteps. Above ground, the air was rich with distant sea spray carried by far-off winds.
She guided me through the proposed site, sprinkling in essential details about soil quality and water pH.
“It’ll be hard,” she admitted after the tour, sitting me next to her on the cliff side.
I nodded. “Need to get nutrient-rich topsoil, the microbes in order, and suitable seeds if this is going to work.”
You could hear the grim determination in her voice as she said, “Let’s make a list. Negotiating this could take a while.”
So we began that morning.
You have questions? I suppose that’s an important part of an interview. Fine, ask away.
Oh, her name? Right, it was Verdi. Twenty years later and I’m still working with her. What was it like? If you’re hoping for some juicy story about gardening drama, you aren’t getting any.
Verdi’s tough as the mountainside but has a good heart, even if you don’t see it often. She doesn’t believe in anything being good enough either, always pushing for more.
I know I make it sound like a bad thing, but it’s not. The storms put me through more than she ever did, and at least she had a valid reason. Without her unwavering dedication and optimism, I would’ve given up.
It’s easy to walk through the garden and smell all the growing plants, hear the vibrant community enjoying the space, and praise yourself for a job well done. But not with Verdi’s next grand plan always looming over you.
The strangest thing that’s happened? I’ll admit you ask interesting questions. The lack of imagination most reporters have is why I don’t do them anymore.
One of the first things we grew was tubers, hard-wearing, nutritional foods we could coax out of the lackluster soil.
They created a good crop, but not as much as I’d hoped, so one night, I got the junior gardener to do a stakeout. I suspected something was eating them, and it was a bunch of crabs!
Thought they only ate coconuts, but they must’ve gotten desperate. So I planted an extra patch for them, and the stealing subsided.
The hardest thing to grow? I respect all crops we grow except the dreaded quinoa. We needed grains, and they were the only seeds we could get other communities to give us.
It’s drought-resistant, Verdi said. It’s nutritional! That’s all fine until you discover how picky it is. The tiniest aspect of its growing condition changes and it dies.
Not to mention the birds! No disrespect meant to those creatures, but fighting them off is a battle. Verdi got a carpenter to make a bird feeder or I don’t know what I would’ve done.
When we got our first crop… That revenge never tasted so good. Turns out it was worth the effort.
Do I like to cook? No! Gardening is enough work. I told Verdi long ago if she wanted me to manage the garden, she’d have to find someone else to make the results into edible food.
She did, because she knew what was good for her. Call me a hypocrite, but there are some things I’m better off not doing.
I love the vegetable stew the folks at the kitchen make though. Great way of using the leftovers and it tastes delicious.
So where does that leave you? If you choose, end the piece with a triumphant conclusion and cut out all the hardship. But you’d make the same mistake as our ancestors, leaving no room for nuance.
Each time I mourn our broken world, I’m reminded of the things still beautiful. This is how we heal, with a willingness to see all aspects of the situation.
Most young folks tire of my philosophical nature, but you only appreciate things if you’ve had to live without them.
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Statistics → Word Count: 1,116 | Reading Time: 4:04 mins
