A Toronto Transformation

Planting Your Heart

If I planted my heart, I’d plant it in pots alongside the dill and basil and rosemary perched on my balcony with its beautiful Toronto skyline view.

I’d plant a piece in Paris, a piece in Pamplona. I’d water it with black wine and soda.

If I could, I think I’d dig every last bit of it out of the lush earth in Vancouver. I’d sift that city’s soil until no errant little shards remained. I’d keep the memory, but my heart would come with me.

I’d transplant those shards to my parents’ backyard, where they’d flourish again amidst the lilacs and forget-me-nots and rhubarb and morning glories.

And what would grow from my planted heart?

Words, by the book-full, by the barrel-full, harvested daily, passed along to friends and neighbours. I’d have more than I need.

A messy tumble of roses and tulips, weeds and wildflowers that smelled like chocolatey baking and old wood floors. A feast for bees.

Climbing trees for tiny gymnasts.

Bitter radishes and sweet clover.

Hearty vegetables to lend strength through terrible winters.

I’d grow roots.

I’d grow wings.

I’d grow stories.

A recent blogging prompt on 20SB asked: If you planted your heart, what might grow?

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