
When I was young, I knew two things for sure about my dad. The first was that he was weird. He wasn’t like my friend’s dads. The second was that he loved plants.
There were always plants in our house. A vegetable garden in back, and plants in every room. I didn’t think anything of it, really. I thought it was normal for a dad to come home from work and spend an hour in the yard, watering. It’s what dad’s do.
I remember planting seeds in the vegetable garden with him. He taught me to put two seeds in every hole, because sometimes plants didn’t make it. Understanding plants means understanding death. (continua)
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