it was supposed to be a good year for the strawberry crop
After Joshua Jennifer Espinoza
it was supposed to be a good year
for the strawberry crop.
Just like school was supposed to be a safe
place for children to learn
and the twenty-seven small caskets
this year (so far) were supposed to change
people’s minds.
Police were supposed to protect
every body and videos of brutality
were supposed to make people angry.
Today’s women were supposed to be more free than yesterday’s.
The pandemic was supposed to be under control
a long time ago and the world
was supposed to be building back better by now.
Monarch butterflies were supposed to reproduce
in the spring, and the fact that so many of them did not
was supposed to scare us.
Our communities are supposed to care
when we tell them the story
of our suffering.
Years of suffering
are supposed to collapse
into years of jubilee.
Saying goodbye to the people that hurt
you is supposed to feel like a relief.
Time is supposed to dilute the pain.
Quiet days are supposed to feel restful.
High school graduation was supposed to be the end
of juvenile insecurity and grown-ups
are supposed to know what they’re doing.
You’re supposed to change the world and
You’re supposed to be struck with unshaking clarity and
You’re supposed to create beautiful things in the midst of all the brokenness.
Knowing the truth was supposed to set us free.
the truth was supposed to make sense.
year of the supermarket plants
on the tile floor of the new apartment
lives an eclectic family
of potted houseplants
purchased sporadically, impulsively
with unabating hope
from the stand by the checkout aisle in the supermarket.
they inhabit the corner by the bed
where they are watered
with real tears
and fertilized
with healing words.
in the center stands the grandmother
of the group, a rigid succulent in a tightly fitted terracotta
pot. her life both an experiment
and a promise,
a commitment to keeping something alive.
today she stands just as vibrantly
as she did on the shelf on that August day when she left the supermarket.
behind her lives a lopsided jade
missing a quarter of his leaves after a parking lot tumble
on his way out of the supermarket that fateful September day.
half flourish, half decay
he spends most of his time trying to forget that moment.
new leaves propagate anyway.
in a tile all to herself, resides the pinstripe calathea,
rose-colored pigment in her veins.
she was the last of her kind left in the store
after throngs of shoppers purchased pinstripes
to go with their October pumpkins.
she demands bright light and perfect humidity
plenty of water (but not too much),
cheery music and constant affection,
and even that is not always enough.
today she was offended by a taste of cynicism
and has decided to close her leaves into herself,
showing only their burgundy underside.
in her shadow hides the remnants of an aloe plant
purchased the first chilly Saturday of November,
dead by Thanksgiving.
leaves melted by fungi, the black rot
is cemented in powdered fertilizer
and dripping fresh water
like a silent prayer.
sprinkled throughout are tiny Christmas
cacti, adorned with twinkling fairy lights,
purchased by the armfulls in December
when the supermarket smelled like sugar cookies
and everyone was smiling.
though the lights have long burned out
the cacti maintain an inexplicable radiance.
filling in the back row and nestled together for warmth,
live the young plants purchased in the bitterly cold
months of January, February, and March,
confined to the apartment corner before they had even met the sun.
their childhood was nothing but dark gloomy mornings
and even bleaker evenings and yet
they knew to stretch their arms out towards the sliver of afternoon sunlight
sneaking through the window, savoring each drop of warmth.
a hanging ivy plant purchased on a rainy day in April
hovers over the family like an embrace.
on the days when the sun does not shine,
she melts a little deeper, leaves brushing
against the other plants like a gentle forehead kiss.
beneath her is the spider cactus discovered on the first day of May.
he is the first of the family to flower, like little pink miracles.
the other plants hold their breath while he blooms
and shed a collective tear each time a petal falls.
settled in the back corner is the fig tree, too big for the aisle,
she was hauled from the tent outside the supermarket in June.
her life a promise that this garden might actually become something,
the other plants gaze up at her in horror and awe.
spilling out beyond the little corner are newest generation of plants
collected in July. with pots that are spotted and striped
these plants dance freely in the summer breeze, sipping
sunlight like they’ve never been without it.
their bright colors that would’ve been so foreign
in the apartment just one year ago
are now so lovingly embraced.
this is a space for slow growth,
nurture, care, color, community,
and overwhelming hope.
this space is home.
Katie Clem is a sophomore at Saint Mary’s College who is pursuing a self-designed major titled Arts Innovation and Leadership with minors in Creative Writing, Religious Studies and Theology, and Justice Studies. She enjoys researching and writing about themes of embodied living, trauma and healing, nature and spirituality, and the beauty and pains of ballet. In addition to writing, she spends her time practicing yoga, dancing, choreographing, and teaching and ballet.