Secret Garden

My mother lets out a shriek from the living room. I could be busted for any number of reasons, say, putting the gerbils in the elaborate pram I have long since outgrown, dressing the dashchund in my sister's underwear. But not this time.

This time it is for a long-term secret science project. Materials: shoe box lined with wax paper, filled with dirt, and lightly watered. Put under the couch, way to the back, where the vacuum cleaner and dachshund cannot find it.

After the first week, there is not much growth, but enough to be encouraging. At the second week, a satisfyingly fuzzy blush, and my mold garden is officially off the blocks.

I add things, tend my garden. A bottle cap with a crust of beer on the inside, a penny, a piece of broken glass, and watch the furry colored vectors spread, sometimes touching. The best is a popsicle stick, my most fruitful multiplier, its contact with my mouth setting off hairy tentacled growths more spectacular than any other object I plant.

I think my secret garden is quite beautiful. It gives me a strange comfort to know it is there, incubating in the dark.

My mother feels distinctly less so. Garden interuptus. Sigh.