There are a million, million things they don’t tell you about having cancer, about being sick and almost dying and being resurrected, and wondering if it were worth it since you feel like a dirty rug for years afterward. A million things.
They don’t tell you that it smells of sex at the root zone in your garden. They don’t tell you about the way water molecules ease aside dirt particles with insistent, lubricated fingers, or that you would revel in the sweating, plunging and lifting of shifting the compost pile.
They never mentioned that you might fall in love with a carpet of just sprouted weeds, that you would stroke the thousand thousand tiny green seedlings as gently as your lover’s pubis.
They don’t tell you that earthworms drag leaves into their underground burrows, or that, knowing this, you would spend hours on your knees, scanning the entrances of worm holes. They don’t tell you that your chest will swell with exultation, which is the specific joy reserved for worship, on the day that you find one of the cigar rolled leaves in your garden.
They don’t tell you that it is the little, little things that will bring you back to life.