The Wishing Seeds

From time to time, I find that my mind still remembers the wishing seeds.

They aren't magical, of course -- but try persuading a child of that. I still remember how I would play out on the front lawn, and how the frolic would always pause when one of those puffy white wishes would come bouncing by. My chubby hands would grab for it, and it would skip into the air, eluding me. Sometimes I would catch it, sometimes no; but it would always involve the rush of pursuit, a good deal of giggling, and some extreme ending. Unfolding my grubby fingers to discover a fluffy soft thing was one of childhood's greatest triumphs. My mother called them "money-catchers," but I always knew them as wishing seeds.

To this day, I could not tell you the real name of these puffs. They were seed carriers of some sort; milkweed comes to mind, but who knows? Nor could I tell you why the tiny seed had to still be attached for the wish to be any good. That's just the way it was; it was one of those rules you just didn't question -- hold hands in the dark, step on a crack and break your mother's back.

There was a wood near my house where I discovered gold in wishing seeds. I was older then, old enough to wander unsupervised about my neighborhood. I believe I may have been walking my dog; all I know is that I found a small hidden valley simply teeming with the tall pod-topped stalks. Crack open those ugly warty pods, and the wishing seeds would just flow like water. But a certain amount of caution was necessary. If it was too early, the puffs would still be green and damp; too late, and they'd be dessicated, leaving only the seeds to spill into your hand. The puffs were worthless without the seeds, and the seeds were worthless without the puffs; the two had a beautiful symbiotic relationship. I remember that I would often glut myself on those pods -- they were so tempting and available, and there was such a perfect hill nearby.

There was an odd little ritual involved; I don't remember if that was another rule, or something I myself made up. I would look for an open space, hopefully with a bit of breeze. I would close my eyes tightly and blow on the tiny puff, then watch it float away. If the wind carried it heavenward, my wish would come true; if it hit the ground, I'd have to try another day with a new seed. I don't recall if any of my wishes ever came true. That was before my wishes had become too important. All that mattered was the game, and the hill near my little valley was the perfect place to play it.

I don't have any clear memories of any specific times I went to my hill, except for the last. I was even older then -- maybe fourteen, sardonic, wizened. Things were going wrong again, as they are wont to do when a person is fourteen, sardonic and wizened. I'd long abandoned my walks in those woods, but for some reason I found myself there, remembering.

It was like going back to the house you grew up in, walking through the rooms you haven't frequented in years. The eerie familiarity was entwined with the realization that so much time had passed, that I had changed so much. I looked around the valley, thinking how young and foolish I'd been. Happiness doesn't come from within a warty pod, and not even a snowy airborne puff can make dreams come true. And yet, something in me made my hand reach out, deftly pluck the pod and split it open.

The seeds spilling to the ground reminded me of the tears I'd come to know so well. It made me angry, and made me try another one. Again, the rain of dessicated seeds. It wasn't fair, it wasn't fair -- there must be one hope left! I ripped through that valley like a whirlwind, relentlessly and selfishly destructive. When I had thrown down the last empty pod, the valley looked like something dead -- dead like my hopes and the feeling of my leadened heart.

I ran to my hill, refusing to believe that even my old childhood tradition had betrayed me. For a moment I was a child again; I threw myself down on the grass, tantrum-like.

And as I sat pouting on the ground, a puff bounced whimsically by.

I snatched at it, desperate, and became the one responsible for my fate. I had handled it too roughly, and the seed had come unfastened from the puff. My sorrow was immeasureable as I let the puff fly and dropped the useless seed into the waiting grass. The scene had become bleak to my eyes and, rising, I left the hill behind. I didn't look back, and I don't believe I ever returned.

I tried to write a poem about it, what happened on that hill, but my abilities in those days were meager at best. The attempt was, in fact, pathetic. I didn't understand until much later that it had to happen sometime. In my wallowing misery I had pitied myself for the loss of concrete hope; the wishing seeds were the last remaining vestige, and they too had failed me.

Years later I raised my face to heaven again, but not to watch a white cottony body rise to it. Instead I saw myself rising, striving to become one with whatever great power had once accepted my childish wishes. The seeds had accomplished
nothing -- at least nothing tangible, as I had wanted them to at the time.

And yet, the great abstractions of thought I now possess must have sprouted from somewhere.