First Garden

First Garden

By: Joy Ortiz

It all started as a swath of lawn. 

The sunniest spot in my yard

Begged to be a garden. 

I was pregnant with my first child

As I knelt and planted

Tomato after tomato after tomato plant,

All of the peppers,

Rows of seeds,

And hope

In the freshly turned soil. 

I cut long rolls of black plastic,

Laying it between the rows to smother 

Any trespassing weeds. 

I waited. 

Spring melted into summer, and

My garden bloomed. 

Tiny yellow blossoms gave way

To swelling tomato fruit

That grew as my belly did,

Expanding with new life. 

Tiny peppers grew. 

Green-fingered jalapeños and

Lumpy, bumpy bells

Abounded in my beautiful garden. 

Broccoli and beets,

Onions, lettuce, and green beans

Climbed out of the earth

And spread their leaves beneath the summer sun. 

When the tomatoes ripened,

There were more than I could even pick. 

Basket after basket I hauled away,

Yet the fallen, split-skinned casualties of gravity

Littered the ground 

Beneath their massive parent plants. 

My garden was bursting with the fruits

And vegetables

Of my labor. 

A late September labor

Of a different kind

Brought me a different and even greater reward:

A daughter. 

As autumn drew a shroud

Over my first garden,

I held my greatest harvest 

In my arms,

Thankful for both.