By Jaye Lewis
本章内容导读
当这些刚刚破土而出的幼苗昂头朝她微笑的时候，我喜欢看着妈妈的脸，那表情让我痴迷。
在她始终无法摆脱那逝去旧梦的纠缠，没有勇气对未来抱以任何希望的时候，我会陪伴着她，和她一起流泪，一起欢笑。
She should grow anything from seed.
She could take tiny seeds with her fingertips，place them into the soil.And coax them to grow.She would carefully water the soil and whisper；'You're going to love the sunshine.You're going to feel the rain.And you are really going to adore the rainbow！'
I watched this mysterious woman and marveled at the love she gave to each tiny seed.It was as though the love that she had longer for，and never experienced，poured out of her heart，and into the seed and soil.As if in a strange intimacy，she pulled grace and beauty from the depths，and the little plants would burst forth，reaching for light and air.
There was some sort of hushed1 beauty within her—a secret longing that no one had ever seen nor touched.
It was as if she were too shy or too scared to awaked，perhaps knowing that once set free，she would become out of control.I caught a glimpse of that passion when her anger became unleashed，and it could be dangerous to be the one within her grasp.Yet，she was always gentle with growing things.
She was a mystery to me—this repressed，passionate，secret woman，who gave up on life early within my childhood.
She seldom bought a living plant.She combed garden catalogs for seeds.She mixed her own soil and she started those seeds in any container available.To my mother，anything that had a bottom and open top was a container.
She started seeding in empty egg cartons2，milk cartons，and even eggshells.She especially loved to start tomatoes in the eggshells of geese.She'd make a tiny drainage3 hole with a needle，start the seed in her homemade soil，and when it came time to transplant into the garden，she would gently crush the shell，right before she placed the plant into its permanent home.
'Eggshells sweeten the soil.'she would say.
Where she found the African Violet4 seeds，I'll never know.I watched her mix just the right amount of soil ingredients，placing the invisible seed at just the right depth.Then she watered with care and watched it grow.
It seemed to me that，overnight，the tiny plants would appear，strong and affirming，to lighten up her life.I loved to watch my mother's face，as those tiny seedlings raised their heads to smile at her.
I suppose that my mother felt safest with her plants.Plants never told her she was worthless.Plants asked for little and they gave back to much.Plants never came home drunk，like my father did.And they were never disobedient，as I was.
My mother would often tell me her secrets for making things grow.I can still hear her voice as she shared her magical recipe for compost or discussed the benefits of one manure5 over another.
I never told her just how beautiful she was at those moments，with her face alight with understanding and knowledge.
