The Metaphor: Part Three.

by | Feb 22, 2024 | Uncategorized | 1 comment

where the soil had fallen away, a faint trace of light green.

Every morning for the following week the old man greeted the seed with a crisp “good morning,” with no response. Each day, a slice was shaved off his optimistic enthusiasm until, exactly seven days after his first encounter, he gave up.

He picked up the pot and took it to the open window. Just as he was about to upend it, spilling its contents onto the herb garden below, he heard the tiny yawn again.

“Seed! Is that you? Are you awake?” He held his ear to the pot and listened – nothing. It must have been a bird or a mouse or something, he thought. Opening the window with one hand, he took the pot by the base in the other and pushed it through the gap.

“Good morning old man,” the seed said crisply. He almost dropped the pot and its entire contents onto the ground below.

“I thought you were, erm,” he stammered.

“Sleeping? Yes. I was exhausted. You wouldn’t believe how tiring germination is. All of that dividing and such like. May I have a drink please? I’m so thirsty,” replied the seed.

The farmer carefully pulled the pot back through the window and placed it on the table. He filled a mug with water and gently poured some into the soil where it’s soaked in immediately.

“Ah, thank you. You’re too kind. Tell me, how have you been in my absence? Did you miss me? I missed you so much.” The words emanating from the pot wrapped the old man like a warm quilt. He stared at the bare soil and a smile retraced the lines on his face from a week ago. He remained like that for several minutes so that his face began to ache.

“You’re not used to smiling are you?” Said the seed suddenly, snapping the man out of his trance into his usual frown

“What have I to smile about? You don’t know me at all,” he snapped.

“I know more than you think. Isn’t it time you had some breakfast? You haven’t been eating well have you?” Replied the pot’s new resident.

“You don’t know the half of it. While you were finding your way into my precious bag of winter wheat I was nursing my wife in her last days,” the old man counterd, filling the kettle. He placed it on the stove and began his breakfast ritual. 

“Two things old man – wait – may I know your name? Old man is so disrespectful,” the seed said.

“My name is Mikel. Do you have a name or a species or something? What exactly are you?” Mikel answered, sawing the crust off the new loaf. He spread butter on the soft spongy flesh of the crust and made the tea.

“We’ll come to that,” replied the seed. “As I said, two things. First of all, they were not your wife’s last days. It was only the final part of that existence. She lives on in another form. Secondly, and similarly I have not always been a seed. I, like your wife, was once a beautiful young woman.” The words emanating from the pot took the old man’s brain and squeezed it a hard. He was reeling at the brace of blows the tiny entity had dealt him.

“Where is she? I must know! Can I see her? Is she close?” Mikel took up the pot and shook it. Particles of soil spilled onto the table. Then, suddenly, he noticed, where the soil had fallen away, a faint trace of light green. He knew the sign from years of watching crops grow. A shoot! His companion was no longer a seed.

Thoughts of his late wife left his head as swiftly as they’d entered. He placed the pot on the table and stared at the smooth green curve poking from the black granules.

“That’s better. Do you like what you see?” The shoot whispered. Its voice was different to that of it’s predecessor. But the old man didn’t respond. He was stricken. Something had entered his head as the thoughts of his wife had exited. “Let me tell you my story,” continued this new manifestation of his new friend.

1 Comment

  1. Kenneth Childs



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